The man always wants to talk. However, there is no clear listener. The only certainty is that he speaks while on the subway train. As usual, the man boards the Gyeongui Central Line that crosses the outskirts of Seoul, and without a specific listener, he starts recalling old memories and sharing stories about Mongolia in front of the train door’s glass. His words keep repeating or transforming, and while he does not know about the universe, he utters words as if monologuing about the principles of the Earth. His words, sometimes painful and wandering, flow out. At times, his face looks sad and forlorn.

Living in Paju, I sometimes take the Gyeongui Central Line to Seoul or Yangpyeong. One day, on the subway train, I saw a woman talking to herself. Her words were clear but cut off, repeatedly starting over. Her face, as she spoke to a friend over the phone, was filled with laughter. The same words, over and over. A few days later, at the same time, I saw the same woman boarding through the same door. As soon as she got on, she poured out her words into her phone, just like before. I was not sure if it was the same conversation as last time, but her words continued to repeat. I felt an inexplicable, strange sensation and opened my phone’s memo app to note down fragments of what she said, relying on my memory. It is probably my distorted recollection, but I wanted to capture that fleeting moment’s feeling.

World Premiere