![]() ![]() A table of twenty-somethings collectively rolls its eyes while the teenagers staffing this concrete-floored annex sit passively and pretend not to watch. Ko Un lurches upward, balancing on his red plastic stool, clapping and urging us to sing louder, to follow him. These three Korean poets-Ko Un, Lee Si-young, Kim Soo-bok-are again breaking into song. This is the fourth place we’ve been to this evening, and we’re soaked. I am sitting at a table with an octogenarian and two others, a dozen empty bottles before us. A few lonely cars speed along mostly empty arterial roads. Small groups shuffle towards the neon of V.I.P. ![]() ![]() It is 2.30am in early November and the streets are frosty, the dry air abrasive. ![]()
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