Room 9

I am currently living in a hotel. From behind this window, I can see the alleyway where I used to walk Rosie and Millie. Indeed, if I poke my head out, I can identify the exact spot they liked to piss on. It is a small turf of green grass stuck in the concrete of a stranger’s driveway. From this angle, the territorial appeal of the particular spot makes sense. The view across my room leads into a skyscraper, the windows twinkling like off-world stars in the endless cosmos. I pause to consider the galaxy of alien life. Here, I see someone stretching; there another person slumped on their chair, no doubt basking in the glow of their microwaved pasta. If I wasn’t in such a hurry when I left, then I would have collected my monocular to observe these movements in more precise detail. But this is a small room and it will be hard to assess how long one individual can live here without risk of cabin fever. Indeed, there is no small danger of catching an existential bout of terminal burrowing presently, the chief symptom of which is a primitive but anguished retreat toward corners, alcoves, and nooks. Chief of my worries is the shower in the corner of the room, which does not make sense to me. In time, the moisture on this purple carpet will cause a problem, both conceptually and empirically. Like Millie and Rosie, I must leave the room and use the public outhouse to relief myself. When faced with a busy time, I will be obliged to queue in an orderly manner with the other guests. Perhaps I will give up and return to room 9 and try again later. On the other hand, I have not seen anyone else in the hotel except the Polish girl on the desk. All is silent and there are no lights seething from beneath the doors. Perhaps though, I have stumbled into a vacant hotel, a proverbial Bermuda Triangle in the middle of the city, consuming all life that enters into its reach. Tomorrow's breakfast will be the judge. But right now it matters neither way. We adapt to our terrain and wait for good news to come. Tomorrow I teach Hegel, tonight I must prepare. These are truly the busiest of days.