March 2006: Stop, look and repeat.

There are endless reconfigurations of these common elements. The city, the people, your own experiences in it whorl into fractals of a memory. This was yesterday, but it could have been tomorrow.

It's overcast and the clouds are slowly mingling, reforming, darkening. The wind has picked up. Winter has left nothing but promotional fliers to blow around in the late afternoon. The cold gusts make people look stern. A girl holds her coat closed with her free hand. She's waiting on the corner, the green arrow lights up and a steady stream of cars go past. The light switches to red and cars continue to turn left, drivers emboldened by prescedent leaving the crosstraffic to wait a few more seconds until the activity transgresses into the unpardonable. Someone honks. The walk sign is already blinking before it's safe for pedestrians to cross. Three buses lumber past, half full of bored-looking commuters. They're staring out at the cell phone vendor booth, at the fruit vendor, at the guy selling straw brooms, straw trivets and whisk brooms. An ancient woman is walking down the street, stooped from age and a poor war-torn diet in earlier decades, pulling a heavy cart ladened with recyclables. In the opposite direction, a mother with an infant bundled to her chest looks down at an array of women's shoes out on a blanket in front of a shoestore. Holding his mother's hand, a young boy jumps from a short cement post to the ground, there to prevent traffic from running up on the sidewalk, for his amusement. A man in a business suit gets into a taxi. Three school girls walk past, the hems of their gray dresses flap a bit in the breeze. Standing in front of a restaurant, a man in slacks and rubber shower slippers is smoking and staring out at the weather, his gaze obviously too indistinct to be taking in anything closer at hand. The clouds, streaked with black, heavy tones look ready. They reflect off the buildings and move over the city.

When they're seperated by tracks running through the middle, concrete pillars stand in between the subway platforms. Standing around, a couple of young guys in a close circle talk in low voices. They've got on fashionable shirts and baggy pants. Their shoes are clean and their hair gelled back. One of them has tinted glasses. There's a girl, tapping away at a furious pitch on her cell phone. She's got her hair tied back and is wearing a pink coat that doesn't quite go to her waist. A women in a business dress walks quickly towards the end of the platform. Three girls are leaning against the wall, against an advertising poster, waiting for a friend. Two old men are sitting on a bench, geared up for a trek. Maybe returning from one. An old women with a rolling basket loaded with plants is standing firmly in front of car 4 door 3, with purpose. It's an ideal place to exit, at whatever stop she is heading towards. A boy in a school uniform stares intently at a book. People have scattered across the platform; it's easier to get onto the subway when you're waiting behind fewer people. Then the air picks up, the speakers ding and the inbound train's destination is called out. The signs hanging overhead change with the destination, as well. The placards on the pillars glow from the subway's headlights and the train thunders through the tunnel. As it slows down, the people standing inside gradually cease to be blurs. People sitting, people standing, a bored girl stairing out the window. The pneumatic sound of the doors opening, closing and the speakers ding again. The train shudders and roars out of the station. Away.

A few girls are standing, passing out fliers for a bar up the street. Behind them are a few tent-restaurants. It's still cold, the wind is still blowing and it's still late afternoon. The tent has it's siding down, a zippered door hangs loosely down. Inside, the school kids are in between school and cram school. A cluster of them is chatting amicably, eating odang. A woman is stirring a metal bin of ttopoki that's billowing up steam. Two guys, backpacks resting against their red stools are poking toothpicks into kimbab and lazily rolling them around in soy sauce. In the far corner, in another tent, a couple share a couple of fried-fish snacks. People hurry past, food sizzles in the deep friers, a small boy runs his hand along the orange plastic of the tent.

Outside, much later, the neon blinks; zaps from red to green to blue and back to red. Norebangs, hofs, ramyeon and motel signs blaze in the chill spring night. Throngs move up the street, a thin trickle of people pushing past in the opposite direction. Made-up girls and the low rumble of traffic grinding past compete with stereo systems set up at the doors to basement bars. A guy in a restaurant apron squats against an alley wall on break, smoking and watching the parade. A bus lurches to a halt, with some students getting off and some people getting on. An attractive girl, with her head lolling and arm around her boyfriend stumbles on a gutter. A group of young kids watch some old guys hitting a punching game. The tinny music rattles after the ball registers a hit. The next guy winds up to beat the score. The momentum of the street moves forward. The city trundles past. Lights flicker and people walk through it. And pause. Look, then move on.