Hotel living so phenomenal, like living somebody else's life, or your own life on the lam. Coming home at one a.m. in the quiet elevator, sinster metal ashcans in the hallways suddenly striking you with terror, feeling like some lowlife is behind you, stalking you in the seedy dim light. & then to swipe your card in the door, slip thru & deadbolt yourself in -- utter security after half-feigned terror.
& it will be golden and eternal just like that. There's no need to say another word.
The AC, the TV, the disposable cups individually wrapped in plastic, my $6 bottles of quite decent Shiraz awaiting me. The giant beds, better if you were here. Evening spent in an outdoor bar, somewhere in the Grove, here in Miami, but everybody only wants to talk about New York. Vodka gimlets outside by the palm trees; I have no thirst for scotch here, tho I thirst for good conversation like I thirst for you.
Well, not just like.
Falling asleep to the television, an old film of Madame Bovary. The overly dramatic lines mingling with your dreams: "Do you know, Charles, why that clock strikes? To announce the death of another hour."
