One summer, there was a massive flood. After the flood, I met someone who believes that art should be recognized as labor, even within a capitalist society. Despite that belief, she is so poor she can’t afford to pay her rent. With her frail arms, she dances, acts, and paints. We took a walk to the Han River Citizens’ Park near her house. She was the one who brought it up first.

“There used to be a lot of trees here. Was it last summer? It rained so much, the whole place flooded. All but two trees died.”
“I remember that too. It used to be a dense forest, but now it’s devastated.”
“All the trees along the road grew slightly bent. Maybe that’s why... or maybe their roots just weren’t deep enough? They were all swept away.”
“We’re standing on the graves of trees.”

  There was no one else around, but I could hear water rushing somewhere. The wind was strong. “I want to move like a tree swaying in the wind,” she said, and began to dance. Her thin arms swayed slowly beside the half-bent bough. 

   The tree hugged the tree. The sobbing grew more and more distant.