Waking up is imminent. The hunger that follows is as unrelenting as the light that drawn yet transparent curtains allow to pour into the room. The day must start and things must be done. It's acceptable to allow for a few more minutes of laying in a peacful state that will soon been gone. The warmth that accumalates under the quilt pacifies any desire for productivity and I am indeed thankful that no duty will be calling today. I am free to exploit laziness and soon am safely slumbering.

I am soon awake again and am not drawn into a fight to remain so. I lay with open eyes as the same light and hunger I despised moments before returns. With these enemies upon me, I am forced to stand and march to a cold shower stall. The steam loosens my senses and I become aware once again.

I contemplate my rendezvous with the street food vedor that perches around the loud corner. Her cheap food makes me feel good and fills a need we all share. I dress and gather the necessary pocket filling items. Make a quick look around the inside of my living room and head out the door. The square outside my door is dirty and wanting of human attention. The neglect has accumalated and has made itself at home. I pass unwanted wrappers and haphazzard cinder blocks. I'm thinking of the vegetable pancake and the satisfied hunger I shall soon know.

I thrust my hands in my pockets and walk down the ugly alley. To my left is the backside of restaurants and stores that shoot off their greasy black air through even blacker and clogged ventilation fans. I must stoop to avoid being sprayed with the foulness. The street greets me with the familiar blur of a million bicycles and pedestrians that contribute to the human cesspit. It's amazing. I'm amazed. I cast a glance to the familiar corner and I see her. The objective is in sight, and she is cooking. A quick hello to an aqcuiantance and I'm on my way to a fed hunger.

Her frame is small and her hands are brown and overworked. Her smile is warm and her movements are all knowing. She is so practiced that I believe she ponders other things much far removed from the task at hand. She knows me and there isn't any pretension. She gathers the ingredients I like and begins. I fail to notice everything she does. It's just another trip to the corner where I buy food. She will be there tomorrow and I know this.

The smell of fried vegetables wafts up and dances with my nose. It smells good, I think to myself. I part with my money and take my prize home. I consume it and don't think. Tomorrow will doubtless be the same thing that has become a ritual. The walk down my filth ridden alley, the turn and the glance to the lady on my corner. The walk to the stall and the looks I give to all things Chinese in a world that will manage just fine after I am gone. To call a place home for but a season is fine at the beginning of the season. When the season begins to fade, so does the feeling. And so it is time for a different place, and another season.