That's the Story of My Life

I'm in a hotel room in Chicago right now. My mother is sitting on the other bed as we stare at NBC and the Olympic stats run across the screen. I'm very tired, I haven't really done much, but I can feel sleep hanging over my head, weighing my thoughts down. The hotel is depressing, there is a facsimile of niceness which has simply failed to stick. This whole idea of an attempt at beauty, an attempt at luxury, is depressing because I wonder who really likes this place. I wonder who stays here and feels like it is grand. I hope these people do not exist. I walked down the hallway last night, slowly, the electric lights casting a green glow over everything they shone upon. I dragged my feet and wondered. In the silence of the hallway I could hear myself move, I could hear the walls talk. I thought of Scott Frank, sleeping in the decrepit Geronimo. Walls pealing, wind hot, and the dope hotter. Sitting on his balcony and staring out over Arizona, I thought of how I could live that life. With no ties to the past or the future, the here and now resting in the bottom of your spoon, and your place to lay your head a hotel. There is something romantic about living in a hotel, the idea of watching other people change while your situation stayed static. I'm going to talk to Tanzen next time I see her, I miss her and I hope to God that we can get a minute to discuss some upcoming plans. She's met some new people, and with that we can move from there. I guess there will be more details about that soon.

Well, my stomach feels like it's about to explode, so I have to stop all of this blah-blah-blahing. I'm sure you have more interesting things to do. = )