Room of Air

Some places keep their air. The people have gone, but something in the room has not moved. I go back to look for it.

The building is old. The letters on its sign are older than I am, and they are coming apart. I breathe in and the air is gone; I breathe out and it is already different. Still, it stays in the place. A wall holds it. A window holds it.

There is a circus in my head. A giraffe talks. A friend is waiting at a corner. One tree stands on a hill, at an hour that is neither day nor night.

I wanted a stage. It could have been the Forbidden City, or a back alley in Busan. It was a washroom. A red advertising balloon floated up and took the lead. The mirror, the hand dryer, the sink, the shadow across the wall had been there all along. When the balloon came in, each of them got a part.

A child's dream and the dream of someone who has become a child again are not the same. The second one knows how long it has been. I go back and photograph what is left of that air.