Changdictator Quotes

My head is bad, but my heart - my heart is good

There are questions Kyungsoo doesn't ask Jongin. He doesn't ask Jongin if they can stay together forever, or how many tomorrows are really left, because sometimes the truth is too bright. He can only hold onto the seconds, each gesture, each contact, each syllable. Jongin comes in seconds. Everything comes in seconds.
If only the seconds could last long enough.

The stranger, with an unlit cigarette between his teeth, turns first. The unflattering elevator lighting enshrouds him in jaundice yellow and a heavy veil of lethargy. Kyungsoo wonders, with the cinquillo pounding into his veins, if the man's skin is as plastic as it seems.

You don't deserve to see daisies wither.

You sound so miserable."

"All novelists are.

Because, listen, hyung. You don't deserve to ... see the daises wither ...

Still, it's almost too natural to rekindle Jongin's smile with a tiny "Hello," and somehow the syllables are perfect on his tongue, perhaps because he's said it a thousand times already. Perhaps because they're meant to be.

Cause you know, we live in different time, me in your yesterday, you in my tomorrow.

Thick pulse and dizziness make his head light and stomach turn. He really can't feel his fingers, or knees for that matter. But everything settles down again - almost as if it were always meant to - when his eyes graze a dumb grin and a pair of glittering eyes.

Yesterday you loved me, today you'll love me again

Your name is Do Kyungsoo. You have short-term memory loss, antesomething amnesia, so you won't remember what happened last night. But let me help you out.

Last night I put my head on this pillow and my arms around your waist. My name's Kim Jongin. I call you hyung. Yesterday you loved me. Today you'll love me again.

This is where you undressed me.

This is where I undressed you.

And here I pushed you up against the wall and kissed you really hard (approximately, it was kind of dark) and we thought we should have sex.

Here you sat, dangling your legs. I put my palm on your kneecap and you bent forward and kissed me first.

We talked about ballet. You hummed a tune and my fingers did an arabresque here, grand jeté onto the floor, fouetté en tourant and then sissonne on the back of your hand. Pas de valse fast up your arm and you smiled.

I leaned on this and read your green sticky notes while you went around cleaning up invisible messes. It came to me that all the green looks like grass, and grass is boring without daisies. So I hope you like yellow?

And here's Kim Jongin. Say hello to me?

It's funny because my life is full of this:

you think you're escaping, until you run into yourself.

Twenty-three years later it turns out that the longest way round is the shortest way home,

and I've been running in circles since the get-go.

What a riot, huh?

My name is Jongin. I'm the writer who lives next door. See you tomorrow, hyung. Don't forget!

Where are we - " Kyungsoo yelps as Jongin practically throws him over the window pane of a filthy-rich looking convertible, a treacherous little thing parked up against the curb, all black exteriors and plush white interiors, not even bothering to open the door, "going?"
"To see fireflies," Jongin says muffling coughs in his sleeves, and it's only when Kyungsoo buckles up and looks over does he realize that the boy is grinning from ear to ear, "Real ones.

Writers are certified bullshitters.