THE city is already miserable. The endless rain is making it even worse. With about half the passengers now gone, Kuro had posted himself near the station entrance. There was a postbox near his home but of his little idiosyncrasy he would prefer the one three miles away, just to get a breath of freshness outside. He was fazed by the rain and doubted if he would encounter a mail delivery failure because the raindrop may dissolve the words written. He was always like that, in a state of mind as one of the ambivalence and conflict. To resolve himself from this depthless abyss, he decided to write another letter whilst turning to his playlist, “Where Are We Now?” from the Mild Orange. For Kuro, posting a mail had become his daily ritual, mainly due to the fact that he wrote better than he spoke. Ever since he had had any human touches, he came to know that his disappointment would have grown into an aching, irrational desperation when nobody else on earth were able to understand his speech and see through his mind - a horrible, torturous feeling to him. Not that he decided to keep himself shut, but that he tended to lend himself to doses of despondency and self-pity. 

 

He found a seat in the platform that was fairly crowded, with different groups of people clustered in and out of the train, lots of chatter and undetectable noises in the background. With pens and papers, anywhere could be his own studio. He started to hold his blue pen, pretending to think and write. In the eyes of others, he was like a stately stern-faced figure who had been endearingly pouring his heart and soul into a long-lost piece. He had been so eager to be the man of the crowd, but he was too pretentious, that he drew some levels of attention. 

 

The train to Sheung Shui was due to arrive on time, and Kuro who was in Hung Hom, judged himself being so accurate about this. Just when people sitting and standing around him began to disperse and disappear, the vision of Kuro had been turned seaward, and etched vividly against the tumult of images presented in front of him. His imagination took off unrelentingly, as he tried to think himself as escaping the inculturating form the men have conceived whilst remaining a twinges of rationality and morality. He imagined himself in a world that was not of this world. It was unclear where he was, the only thing distinguishable was that, he was above the sea. He tried to open his mouth to speak and was not surprised that it didn’t happen. Since when did he feel reluctant to speak? Or the question is perhaps, how many years had he not spoken? Kuro could not say. For it was only now, after the uncertainty stopped, that he realized an isolated wave, all alone, staring down upon the ocean would be of an inkling of otherness. It carried some missing pieces of memory of Kuro and had no intention of giving back. The melancholic water lied beneath the sky, lifeless and motionless - the sea was apathetic and dire enough to engulf more ghastly spirits. But Kuro never wanted to be the sacrifice. He would be the heroine of his own realm. He knew revenge is a dish best served cold, in lieu of direct confrontation, he left and never returned, leaving behind all his memory and restarted a new life. 

 

Now and then Kuro had dismissed them from his head and been paying all his attention to his letter. He knew what to write. He stood in front of his seat with an expression of triumph and smiled broadly to himself without any self-consciousness. Tottering down the way to leave, he wondered if the rain had stopped so he could post another letter.

 

This is the 166th letter with a blank address, thought the postman. 

The rain was falling even more heavily down on this deserted city, the postman, silently and secretly opened the letter,

and read: 

 

Where Are We Now?