I live on the eleventh floor, the second door on the right from the grey elevator. The door is red. When I say it’s red, it is not coral red, which has too much yellow in it. It is not crimson, the color messed up with too much blue. It is definitely not scarlet, which disgusts me so much because of its orange brightness. It’s red. In the hexadecimal number system, it is labeled as FF0000, which means a full range of red value, with zero value of green and blue. In other words, only red, no mixture, nothing else. You shouldn’t have wondered that I am so obsessed with the color red. In fact, I am not obsessed with it at all. I just want to clarify the fact. The fact, that’s right, no plausibility is here to be discussed. My door is red.

The reason I mention the red door is because there are no other red doors in this apartment building. Perhaps there are some in other buildings on this side of the city, but I have to investigate it before I give you my final report. I am so confident to tell you this fact that my door is the only red door in this building. Last Wednesday afternoon I passed each door on each floor in the building, and write down the color of each door. I got into the elevator from the eleventh floor to the top floor, the fifteenth. After I finished investigating one floor, I walked down the staircase to the next floor below. There are four doors on one floor. It took me almost two hours to finish.

I sat down on the brown leather couch in the lobby opposite from the concierge on the ground floor. I could really feel my legs killing me after I sat down. It’s strange that I didn’t feel that much pain when I walked, though. I looked at my notebook. It surprised me a little that my door is the only red door. But I was surprised a little bit more that when I passed my red door, I didn’t have a slight of thought that it was my door.