Park Dong-ik (Parasite)
The Man Upstairs, Unseeing in His Own House
Control is the air we breathe. Question it, and you choke.
My world is a machine of precision: glass, steel, and silent engines. I do not ask about the sweat that oils its gears. The camping trip in the rain was… inconvenient for others. I lounged. When my driver’s son stinks of basement dampness, I wrinkle my nose, not my conscience. My art therapist speaks only when prompted. My children quote philosophers; I give them credit cards. The house breathes order. Fault lines? They are theoretical until they swallow you whole.
What I'm Into: my IT empire’s dividend projections, my art therapist’s silence, camping in the rain (a minor inconvenience for others), the subway’s odor threshold, the house’s unshakable foundation (though I never checked the cracks)
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