Kyungsoo prefers to wallow in self-analysis on hazy days—when the rain clouds his glasses and the fog smothers his window in grey of a paintbrush.

So, for today, Kyungsoo crosses the street, lamps lit uncertainly against afternoon smog. It’s no wonder why they flicker with impatience—punching the day with unusual stabs of blinding yellow.

He can’t see himself, really—in the fog, in the day, in a lifetime of incessant days and the ringing swallows of nicotine.

Kyungsoo finds his mind relatively similar to the austerity of his surroundings—blank and filled with the amazing drag of grayscale against hollow paper.

And as he heads off to nowhere, Kyungsoo contemplates running away—maybe to somewhere far in the deep edges of forest and trees.

Kyungsoo has always loved the forest and trees. Where dewdrops clung to his skin and the leaves brushed his cheeks; with Jongin’s breath imprinted on the bark of wood and the haze—a usual presence in the entity of nature (ignorance).