The room is either too hot or too cold. Stale, empty freeze devoid of moisture, on stifled wings of a dead grey sky. A raging blast of warm air from the radiator, a slow hog roast.

The cardboard bed with its one, thin white sheet. Duvet the thickness of a starving lamb in winter. Flat, hard pillows.

A hotel room as a colorless, perfectly inoffensive cell. A strange sort of purgatory.

Tepid Earl Grey Tea, shade three seconds unreasonably dark. The ceramic mug black on a white, frilly doily.

Being awake is the same as being asleep. Time is lost, linear transgression escapes.