The fence sets boundaries and distinguishes one area from another. What can be called a 'zone' horizontally becomes a 'layer' when viewed from a vertical perspective. Mu:p is dedicated to creating boundaries in horizontal, vertical, spatial, and temporal dimensions. This may be one of the reasons why 'stairs' are an important object for Mu:p. The audience of Mu:p's works often, or rather in most cases, ends up sitting on stairs to watch the performance. Butler and Foster_Knight lands is one example of this, where the cultural researcher and art curator Kim Seong-eun immediately points out the dividing function that the stairs perform. 'The audience is busy arranging the space into quadrants, from left to right and front to back, in their field of vision. In addition to this, the outside and inside beyond the glass doors, which function like a curtain, are added, and the layers created by the elevation of the seating also come into play. The difference between the lower and higher steps does not just signify visibility or obscurity but seems to assign different roles of 'seeing' to each audience member.' ^{[ 1 ]}

If desired, many more examples can be provided. Cascade Passage consists of the 'ruin packages' divided into three groups: A, B, and C. When the performance begins, each group moves to its designated location. The A-package users watch from the 1st floor, which represents the 'earth' (“We love this land, where we can stand with our two feet, and we cannot rest for even a moment if we leave this place.”). The B-package users go one floor up to the 2nd floor, which corresponds to the 'sky' (“Imagine a plane rising through the clouds.”). Meanwhile, the pre-arranged C-group users perform in the unique structure Flavenia, which represents 'another layer like clouds.' In the case of {Open set} ⊂ Phase-lag, “the space is set up by adding doors and walls in a structure that is symmetrical to the original door in a square-shaped space” and “creates two layers of time: the main time axis of the work and the delay time for the audience who enters the performance area 10 minutes later.” As for Over the Wall, which explores 'walls,' it goes without saying. Just as stairs are important vertically, the floor is never simply a floor for Mump. Whether visible or not, in most cases, Mump’s floor is a 'coordinated floor,' and this coordinate either sets the performer’s path or, conversely, provides the possibility for the performer to lie across it. Sometimes, as in Pop-up, Guerrilla, Partisan, it even serves as the base for arranging the audience.

Such boundary-making and layer-division evoke two contrasting sensations simultaneously. One is the sense of somewhere else, of a place that is not here, and the other is the sense of the impossibility of reaching the outside. This is because, fundamentally, a division presupposes the possibility of movement to another area, but such movement can only occur within the system of 'division' itself, making it impossible to transcend that system. This is also why we encounter a certain sense of claustrophobia in the quotation from Short three times, Long once: 'I wonder if this is a swimming pool, but when I open my eyes, I can't see anything, so I have to open my eyes again. And when I open my eyes, I feel my eyeballs covered by my eyelids, so I open them again, but no matter how much I open my eyes, I can't escape my eyelids.' In fact, one of the authors who most fervently explored this kind of sensation is Kafka. His short story The Emperor's Message is a fable about a very important message sent by the emperor on his deathbed. The lion who receives this important message immediately sets off to deliver it to someone called 'you,' but it seems this message can never be delivered. This is because the lion can only move from one area to another, but the division of those areas is endless, and it takes an eternal amount of time to pass through them. The second paragraph of this work, which consists of just two paragraphs, is as follows:

The emissary immediately set out on his way. He was a tireless, strong man, alternately stretching his arms forward, cutting through the crowd of people. When stopped, he would reveal the mark of the sun on his chest. He moved forward more easily than anyone else. However, the crowd was vast, and their dwellings seemed endless. Were the plains to open, he would surely run like the wind, and soon the sound of his powerful fists would echo at your door. But instead, he struggled in vain, still barely making his way through the deepest rooms of the inner palace, and he would never escape those rooms. Even if he did, it would be of no use. To go down the stairs, he would have to fight again, and even if he won the battle, it would avail him nothing. He would still have to pass through the courtyard, and beyond it lay the second palace, surrounding the courtyard, with more stairs, more palaces, and yet another palace, and so on, passing through thousands of years. Finally, if he were to burst out through the outermost door— but this could never, never happen—the capital, where the sediment of the world has been accumulated high, would unfold before his eyes. No one passes through here. Not even with the message of the deceased in hand. —Yet, you sit by your window, and when evening comes, you dream of that message.

The irony of this story arises primarily from the clash between the emperor's deeply important message, left at the moment of his death, and the impossibility of delivering it. However, the true irony that gives life to this work comes from the shock embodied in the final sentence. As we read through this long paragraph, we already come to understand that the lion will never reach his destination. It is precisely for this reason that the unexpected existence of "you," sitting by the window and still waiting for the message one evening, and the vividness of the dream that "you" have, strikes us with such a shock. In short, the hidden irony of this work lies in the collision between the impossibility of delivering the emperor's message and the vividness of the dream "you" has while waiting for that message.

But how can such vividness and shock exist if this dream has no chance of being realized? This is because the dream is unknowingly being realized on some other level. Of course, the internal narrative of the novel, which traces the lion’s journey, never allows the lion to reach "you." However, this short story somehow manages to leap beyond that impossibility and instantly reach "you," sitting by the evening window, waiting for the lion. (It might be clearer if we compare it to film – while the character within the narrative cannot leave the palace, the camera that conveys the story somehow manages to exit the palace and successfully capture the image of "you.") "Your" dream contacts this immediacy in some way. This immediacy exists outside of the narrative and can only be achieved through the power of images, because while the lion is trapped in the eternal repetition of the door within the narrative, images can traverse all levels of the narrative and can be present everywhere at once.

Thus, the immediacy and vividness of this dream lie in the gesture of "you," who rests your elbow on the window frame and rests your chin in your hand while gazing out at the evening. This is also the vividness we discover within the numerous boundaries and self-enclosed circuits set up by Mu:p. Jung Ji-don once described Mu:p’s characters as “moving very slowly, walking or running like ordinary people,” and remarked that “audiences who come to see the tricks of the inhuman dancer may leave with wounds in their hearts.” ^{[ 2 ]} At least Kafka would not have questioned why such movements are important. For Kafka, the most decisive and unresolved mystery was the simple fact that someone moves from point A to point B.