mail clerk of purgatory
I know someday I'll be an old man pushing a mailcart along the streets of purgatory where it's always three in the morning. There are a lot of people trapped in purgatory. And they all want their mail. I'll be an old man limping through the blue-grey morning. There will always be dull Christmas lights blinking on the fire escapes. And there will always be Christmas songs played at half-speed through a broken radio.