I am still concerned with the poster throughout class, flipping the image of it over and over in my mind, examining it from all sides. Its 8.5" x 11" paper, glossy because of the ominous laser-printed red, ingrained with white digital text. I focus on the letters one by one, like blurring the background through the zoom lens of a camera.

S

Y

S

T

E

M

I

S

E

V

E

R

Y

T

H

I

N

G.

Every character is in capitals to start. But the font itself is also distinctive, as unlike a digital clock, it is unexpectedly round, proportions slightly skewed. For example, the tail of the "Y" would curve in an extravagant hook and the "E" had round corners that reminded me of a 3. The final "G" left a little too much vacant space for consideration.

On the other hand, I have a suspicion there had been a period at the end. And the suspicion eventually turns to confidence. I am sure there had been a period. With a period, the conclusion is clear, leaving no room for debate. Had it been without one, it might have been mistaken as a mere design, a brand, a title of a movie, a song, a play, a book, an obscure drink, rather than a message, from point A to B, from transmitter to receiver. The creator of the message - assuming there was one - would surely not make a blunder. Even the font must have been carefully selected to not appear jarring, but its intricacies served to put the viewer at an unease.

From the red background, each letter would seem to glow, brighter then dimmer. But red itself is a tiring colour, like a welding torch searing into the human eye. After a while, if I study it long enough, the red might change shades and grow unfocused. Perhaps my eyes would begin to water. Yet is there something else I'm missing? Is there a hidden message? A hidden agenda? Something to read between the lines? Or am I merely thinking too much?

Shizuka puts a hand on mine. Yes, you are thinking too much, she tells me without words.

She's searching for something in her purse and with the other hand, she points at my pocket. I know what she wants and I give her my phone, no questions asked. We are sitting close enough and I can smell her apartment in her hair. It's stronger than it had seemed at her place. Maybe it was harder to notice, when I was sitting right in it. But I understand now, what the aroma reminds me of: wood, leaves, like walking into a deep ancient forest, the fragrance of summer.

On her palms our phones become the yin yang symbol, her white against my black, like some kind of a spiritual moment. They touch and converge; there is no sound but something happens silently. She nods, maybe to herself, and hands one back. It has her number, 080-1293-2031, and maybe here I have another fragment to prove her existence, like her tall caramel chai tea latte, soy, 120 degrees, extra whip. I make sure I have the number memorized, imprinted in memory, fragments collected.

If They are after us, connection by phone might not be so wise.

It's necessary sometimes, she says without speaking.

Yes, I say without talking.

The lecture is discussing T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Albert Prufrock", to which the students sit in silence, heads forward, unmoving - and I am uncertain if they are engaged at all. If an artist were to paint the scene, each head - of which only the back is visible - could be replaced by black rocks, and it would hardly make a difference. It might not even make a difference to the professor, who speaks with a monochromatic drawl. He may only be there for the wages and pension and insurance under his capitalist employer. In the same way, his audience is only there according to hegemony and norm.

But to me, from the back of the room, monotone drone or not, students or none at all, only a few lines of the verse stand out to me. I don't feel in love, so emotional context has no appeal to me. Rather, I'm drawn to the narrator's cycle of inner conflict, caught between action and inaction, understanding his place in the world, questioning himself, desiring to, but unable to move forward - but towards what? Disturbing the Universe? Making a scene or two? But it all concludes with drowning. It always concludes with drowning. The world rises up to swallow us whole. In such sense, any struggle may be futile and unnecessary. To fall into place and stay in the middle ground between action and inaction, is destiny. But today, I've chosen action and drowning.

I fold and tuck the printout of Prufrock into my coat pocket. I figure I may need it later. But I get the impression the System is watching.

At the end of class, she tells me that I am hopeless. "When the ones after me are here, your thoughts will be a lighthouse for Them," she says.

Ahn Mi Hyun rises from her seat, four rows forward, and walks towards the door, as if she had no recollection of ever meeting us. Strangely, she has no urge to catch our eye or say goodbye. Neither does anybody else - including the professor who leaves with no indication of ever seeing us still seated at the last row, shoulder to shoulder, heads together - and we finally stand and shoulder our bags in an empty hall. Maybe we don't exist to them.

We find Ahn Mi Hyun outside handing out flyers. She has this bright smile that makes her eyes smile too, and makes me want to smile, but I can't tell if she recognizes us. She extends an 8.5" x 11" poster. "Would you like to come to the Miyazaki Marathon Night?"

"Miyazaki as in Hayao Miyazaki?" I ask.

She nods. "The very one."

I take the poster. On it, I see its glossy laser sheen and - System is Everything. Nothing else. White font on red background.

Shizuka steers the conversation forward. "We'll try to come."

Mi beams. "Great. It would be unfortunate to miss such classic films. Castle in the Sky, Nausicaa, Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, Whisper of the Heart, you know? But at least you have my poster."

"Did you design this?" I ask.

"Yes, I'm a visual art major."

I look at her and then the poster. "System is Everything."

There was silence for a while.

Then I realize I had said it out loud.

I don't expect a reply since not everyone sees the same things after all. I imagine she would scratch her head and tell me she hasn't heard of that Miyazaki film, if that's what I was talking about. But I look up at her and am at a loss for words.

Ahn Mi Hyun simply no longer exists. It's as if she had never existed in the first place.

Instead, where she had been standing so close to us - no extra effects or fanfare, no dramatic entrances or transitions - is now a man, six feet tall. Stony jawline, a long crooked nose, impeccable white skin. And:

Black suit, black tie, black pants, black shoes, black sunglasses.

He does nothing and we do nothing. Everything around us stops and I stare and stare. But none of the features are recognizable. I can look and remember nothing; if I turn away, his face would surely be blank in my mind. The more I look, the emptier his face appears, as though someone has taken an eraser to scrub out the details. I would not be able to duplicate such a face with any artistic ability after. The portrait would remain just as empty, leaving an outline, roughly in the shape and form of a human head.

For a while, we face one another.

And then we don't and I see Ahn Mi Hyun again.

Like she had always been there.

She's smiling and I smile and Shizuka smiles. I blink.

"We'll talk to you later," Shizuka says.

And then we're walking the other way; Shizuka is holding my hand, and my feet are lethargic. I feel like my body is still numb, rooted to the ground with some unseen force, catching my ankles. I can't feel my toes. Something extraordinary had taken place, something I can't understand, and still, something extraordinary continues to happen. I begin to see them reflected in each student that passes by. For a split second, whether my delusion or not, they seem to flicker like a bad TV signal. In the flicker, if I am careful, I can almost make out black suits, black ties, black pants, black shoes.

Had it been the same in the lecture room? They could have easily appeared and sat amongst us, disguised, imposing, silent. Black heads that we saw, looking at the professor, became cropped black heads, that slowly turned on their spots, swiveling to look at us through cold, dark sunglasses.

"I see what you see, I know what you know." She's breathless and I feel the warmth of her hand. I squeeze it. It gives me no comfort but she's there and we are one.

"So you don't know everything," I say.

"I'm figuring this out as we go, just as much as you are."

I tell her that's not very reassuring and she lets go of my hand. Ahn Mi Hyun's poster is still clutched in my other. Its red background and white digital letters seem to vibrate with some unfamiliar life. I can't tell if the paper is trembling or I'm trembling.

"Maybe some of them, like Mi Hyun, is just close to becoming a real Image? What do we do now?"

"Keep moving," she says without looking back, "they'll make their move. This was just a warning, a message, like the poster, but things are happening faster than expected."

I ask if that's good but she says nothing.

We come to a stop. We're back in the lobby now. The sails of the ship are still fanning out, undergraduates rushing to and fro, in or out of its gaping mouth. The System expects discipline and order, schedules and silence, university community and scholarship, assignments and presentations and essays and exams. Students are expected to be no different than a worker in a factory, and no better than a product. Commodities to be bought and sold. The university manufactures obedient students for the workforce. The workforce manufacturers products for the System. The System consumes both workers and products. The System owns all.

The System and its puppets spin around us.

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