hotel

Last night I stayed in a tiny hotel room next to the river. There was a bed and a sink and towels for drying my face off, a purring fan, two empty glasses for water and an empty jar, which might just be for peeing. Downstairs, cacophonous bass pushed through my lumpy pillow. I attempted to imagine my mother's heartbeat, and myself curled inside her womb, but it didn't seem to work so well.

Alas, I slept ruggedly, as though I was fighting a great dream war with long swords, fists of fury, cockatoos, and banshees.