The thing about concert sets is that they're hollow cavities before the audience, endless expanses intimate and private yet so distant. Sometimes it is a routine, you’ve gone through all the movements so many times it’s second nature. Sometimes it’s a high, a rush of adrenaline before flashing lights, strobe images dancing between the cheer of the crowd and the strum of the synthetic bass. Sometimes it is a duty. You time your expressions to the fans’ reception, always remember to advertise for Dongwan’s latest drama or mention something about Jun Jin’s upcoming album.

Sometimes it is simply being, and the passing days are tiring and perhaps a little meaningless, but you won’t have them any other way.

Sometimes it is a revelation.

Being up there gives you a sense of displacement that makes you realize that even though there are six people on stage and several thousand below, you're actually alone. Perhaps everyone is alone, you think, and that’s how it always ever is.

But suddenly there’s a gentle hand on your shoulder to remind you that you’re on air, smile for the cameras, maybe something else, something between the arc of Shin Hyesung’s fingers and the crescent of your shoulder, and maybe it tells you yes, you’re alone but we’re together in our aloneness.

Sometimes it is a comet, a shooting star, with all the distance from the earth to fall, and all the skies of the world to illuminate.