Soo Young Yun
Depression is a clean freak. It cringes to see highlighters drawn over penciled letters, hurriedly pressing the pen to a fresh sheet of paper to rid the marks of lead. Nowadays Depression has taken up flipping a coin, reading from a psychology pamphlet that whatever unmade decision will reveal itself when the coin is in midair. The nickel flashes in the cold sunlight, dozens of times and more that Depression loses count— but no decisions come to mind. Luckily Depression does not have to decide when it comes to shoes, because it hoards all the shoes that arrive on its doorstep. Sometimes they come battered, drenched in water or in sticky crimson, or with the rubber soles scorched to the fringe. Some of them are unscathed, having been left on roofs like the pale shoes of young, soft feet. Some are destroyed beyond repair, and Depression feels its heart tear at the shoes it cannot save. It builds a burial for the unlucky ones, whispering to them to be free, to wander to brighter colors. Like waxen masks, the shoes melt, not burn.