This motel room
Is really a waystation
A place between places
Where nothing happens
Where everyone else is just passing through.
And it’s easier to smile at them, even with full eyes.
Because you know that they’re like you.
In between places.
Waiting.
In stasis.
It’s easy to get lost in a place so small.
Because deep within you there exists a need.
To pop out of this box.
Or be trapped in a cubist hell.
Monochrome. Flattened.
An arrhythmia spiking in a panic against a flatline.
The anxiety of not being quite alive.
You see, the space only has two places to sit.
You’ve got the bed and the desk.
You have to vacillate to maintain the sane.
But going back and forth is always hypnotic.
And now you’re caught in a pinging
That feeds back in a loop.
Yeah, I now understand what it means
To be driven up a wall.
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