It’s deepest, darkest winter. The air is so dry that it sticks in my throat and has transformed my skin into a crumbling wreck. If I touch something metallic, I’m likely to receive an electric shock. The landscape resembles something post-apocalyptic, with the dry, desolate mountains and the skeletal trees. The wind is pounding against the balcony windows of my 13th floor apartment. I roll over in bed and glance at my phone, it’s 6 a.m.; I still have a couple of hours before I need to drag myself out from beneath the covers. I wrap myself up in a cocoon as I settle back down.
Suddenly, the PA system, that’s located above the bathroom door, cheerily pings to life. The security guard surly voice grumbles something in Korean, a language that – despite the time I’ve spent living here – I do not speak. I put my head under the covers in a half-arsed attempt to block out his incomprehensible stream, but it’s impossible. He continues for an indefinitely long period, and then the cheery ping signals that he’s finished.
I carry the curse of being a light sleeper, so now sleep completely evades me. I fume as I thrash around in bed before deciding to face the day. How can this man, who signs for my packages when I’m out, storm into my apartment at 6 a.m. and rouse me from my bed? I really didn’t sign up to live in an Orwellian nightmare.