…or are you not in the hotel and somewhere else entirely, in a place where the floors breathe and the stairs occasionally decide to move themselves? The door you just walked through may no longer exist; it has retreated into a wall and now blooms like a chestnut flower, smelling of other people’s memories. You walk on, but the carpet beneath your feet turns into a dry riverbed covered in stamps and forgotten birthdays. The light on the ceiling blinks in Morse code: “don’t stay too long, the room is getting attached.” Someone—or something—breathes into the wallpaper. Not scary, just practical. A room needs to know who you are, so it can adapt to your dreams, your fears, your body odor in June. There’s a clock on the wall, but the hands have been replaced by two outstretched fingers pointing to where you used to think you were. Time there has congealed, like jam on a napkin in a breakfast room that might be a hospital, or a prison, or the inside of your skull when you dream about suitcases packing and unpacking themselves.