Hiding in toilet suites on hotel floors, above showers-for-two, and below countless stairs.
Dodge large lobby hallways and the corridor artery, early-décor, maze, run past cleaner’s cupboards: potions for the unsavoury, unclean, another lost, single mother.
A room service delivery to a door you don’t own, yet it keeps the unknown fears and doubts out.
Flick and press that remote because long nights lead to hours of unrest, you’re tired of this hotel, you’re tired of their upper-class clientèle, you’re tired of that artificial smell, you’re tired.