text: (Chapter 1) My alarm goes off at 4:30 in the morning, and I struggle to open my eyes. My head aches from where I rested it against the bare concrete corner wall over the night, and my blanket had gotten pinched in between the bed and the wall, leaving me mostly exposed and cold. I shiver and exhale, letting my body try to catch up to my mind. As I attempt to sit up in my bed, grunting and groaning, I can feel my joints and my bones doing the same. I’m only 25, but age is starting to take its toll. I wonder how much it’ll hurt by the time I hit 40, or even 50. *If* I even get that far. I immediately try to push those thoughts out of my mind. *“Another day...”* I rub my face with my hands, getting the sleep out of my eyes. I glance around my dimly lit room, covered in cracks, grime, and mold. It’s a tiny square, with an ancient stove and sink in the corner opposite mine, and right next to it is a very worn out couch Mr. Ling is sleeping in. A door on the wall at the foot of my bed leads into the bathroom, and another door next to that leads into the room Ms. Laura is currently sleeping in. The only light in the room is a lone light bulb dangling from the ceiling, it’s glass cover long since been destroyed or stolen. The faint sound of water dripping from the sink less than a foot away and the snores of my roommates are perfectly accentuated by the whirring of a box fan on the floor. I can faintly hear the sounds of the city outside my window, like horns, some minor chatting, and the sound of food cooking. Upon stepping over to the window, carefully walking around the tofu boxes and the pop cans, I crack the window, and I immediately smell exhaust fumes, rain, and cooking tofu waft into my room. The smell is lovely compared to the smell in my room currently. I lazily look down into the street, down onto the people from my fourth story building inside this rats den I call home. It’s nowhere near as busy as it’s going to be, but a few people are still bustling around, getting their day ready. I wonder if they ever look inside, and wonder if anyone is looking out at them, wondering the same thing they’re wondering. 4:51 A.M. My body instinctively shuffles by itself over to the shower, my mind trying to take control of my body. I turn the heavily corroded knob, hearing the water gurgle and the air get forced out of the pipes. I place my large washbin under the shower head, and eventually the water thunders out, before petering out a few seconds later as the pressure in the line is relieved. I stare into the washbin, seeing the water fill it up, the sound and sight almost hypnotic. Snapping out of my trance, I turn the shower off just at the right water level, and the water gurgles and surges back down the pipes for more residents to use. I pick up the bin, my body a little wobbly from the weight, and I gingerly take it out of the bathroom and through the main room, being careful to not wake up my other roommates. I tiptoe into the main living room/bedroom, the washbin sloshing around like it’s trying to reenact ‘The Poseidon Adventure’, and I pass by Mr. Ling, snoring on the torn and heavily stained couch, his booze and egg drop soup spilled all over him, the smell appalling. His thin white hair is very long, covering most of his face, a face that’s travelled thousands of miles, and he could tell you a million stories about each mile. A very dirty and calloused bare foot sticks up on the armrest, the rest of his body covered from a heavy wool blanket. I look at the faded green door on the other side of the room, behind it is Ms. Laura, an American exchange student, talking in her sleep while her soap operas she likes to watch are still playing through all the static in the TV. I gently set the washbin on the stovetop, and with the squeaky turn of a knob, the hiss of gas and the click of the igniter, I begin to warm the water up. I head over to the fridge and pull some packaged pork and sealed rice and I throw them into the water to get them cooking. Mother would be proud of that little shortcut, using your cooking water as your shower water. Ms. Laura says they have ‘microwaves’ over in America, that heat up food with just a few presses of a button. Yeah, right. 5:02 A.M. While they cook, still sealed in their bags, I take another look outside, seeing the sun begin to rise over my home of Hong Kong. The traffic is starting to pick up, and the world begins to turn again. The streets are starting to see its first commuters, the street vendors and shops below unlock their doors with clacks and thuds and the roll up doors slam open, trying to be ready for the morning rush. The street lights begin to turn off, and a few of the signs of the vendors flick off as daybreak is upon us. A glance over at the pan reveals hat the food is done, so I gently take the bags out of the water and I tear open the bags of pork and rice, dumping the pork into the rice bag. I then grab some soy sauce from the cupboard and I toss a few drops in. I then turn off the heat to stop the water boiling as I eat my breakfast. As I sit down on my bed, Mr. Ling stirs in his sleep, tossing and turning, making the blanket fall off of him. “M-Muu... uuuugh... *hic* I-I love... you...” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around himself as he feels the heat from the blanket get lost. “N-nooooo... pleeease... don’t go...” I glance up upon hearing that, must be the prostitute he rented out last night. Not that I can judge the man too harshly, he just lost his wife. I damn myself for smirking and I pick up the newspaper sitting on the back of the couch. Looking at the date, the old newspaper is from June 14th, 1988, last Tuesday. Oh well, it’ll give me something to read. Looks like... 600 Americans have all congregated here for some business meeting or something. Figures, Americans trying to fix problems that aren’t their own. Biting into my pork and rice, with a grimace I realize the pork still a little cold in the center. It’s food, at least. That’s a lot more than what most people in this place have to eat. I turn the paper over to the next page with a crinkle and a snap, and I see Tian Jiyun is going to meet with the London Stock Market to see if they can send people to learn how the stock market works. Oh, joy. 5:32 A.M. I quickly down my food, throwing my empty bags into the trash. Grabbing the handles of the washbin, I forgot to grab some old shirts, and my skin touches the still piping hot metal. A silent dance and some very quiet cursing later, I take some cold wet rags and put them on the handles, chilling them instantly. A quick jaunt over to the shower again and I can finally get my day sort of started. I undress, feeling the cool and sharp porcelain tiles make contact with my bare feet, sending shivers up my spine. I step inside, and take a tiny bit of water and wash my hair, repeating the mantra in my head as I lather my hair and body as best as I can. “2, 6, 9, 9, 3, 3 goes to 32, then to 11, and 12...” Over and over and over again, while I dump the still somewhat hot water over myself. Ms. Laura always talks about how this is downright archaic compared to the West. Maybe it is, I wouldn’t know. Nor do I really care, honestly. That place is very, very far away, and there are more important matters to worry about than what ‘could be’. I dry off and dress up, putting on my white button up shirt, blue pants, and black boots. I quickly dress my hair, and take one last look at myself in the grungy mirror, adjusting my name tag. I put on my smile, and I walk out of my room and down to the street, heading down to the post office to pick up my rounds for the day. “12 goes to 36, but not 24. 7, 7, 9, 10, back to 9...” My name is Mir Lui, and I’m the mailman of Kowloon City.