I live in Patrick and Ushi’s loft now, and every morning this is my second, or third thought. I don’t think they know that I am here. The bed is tucked under the skylight. Sometime in the last few nights one corner of the duvet inside the cover folded in on itself, but the project of unzipping the bottom, and feeling through for where the problem is, and resolving it, is too exhausting and real to enact, so I leave it as it is. There are two moth traps, one at each end of the room, and they are filling up with moths. Would the moths be ordinarily emptied into the food waste? Occasionally I see them alive, rising startled and drunk from eating carpet fibres, vague in the light by the French doors. Beyond, a tree I can’t name that reminds me of Rome, and the firm red roof of the school where the children I don’t have don’t go. At night I lean out of the skylight and I think of the father in Parasite, writing to his son in Morse code via the light switches in the basement where he is hiding, lighting up the house above with his words. I think of parallel worlds, there has been some mistake, I live in Korean Patrick and Korean Ushi’s basement, in Seoul, and I am an ageing father, writing to my son. The moon arrives outside the skylight. I smoke my vape (because smoking real cigarettes no longer seems sensible in a respiratory pandemic) and I fire up the blue light at its tip and I write you messages on the dark. I am sorry for all of this. I am sorry I lost you. I am sorry I lost you, beautiful world.