This hotel room is killing me. It has been plotting my check-out since check-in.
Last night I heard it whispering my secrets to the corridor.
Whenever I’m choosing wine, I realize all my favourite years are gone.
I keep looking from my window to the pool below seeing me floating face down. The bellboy tells me it’s a good omen. But I suspect he only understands every third word I say.
I phoned room service and ordered a life.
Someone is spiking my drinks with melancholy.
I have been driven mad working for a man who knows nothing and will never be happy. He is trying to turn me into him.
I wake to the maids making the bed with me still in it.
I tried going on a health kick but was advised it could be professional suicide.
In my mourning, I was fitted for a suit and had my photograph taken.
The hotel entertainment is a musical review starring my ex-wives and consists of them telling the world everything was my fault. I didn’t get it and don’t think it has any legs.
Daniel reads my palm every night at the crossroads of Down and Lost. He tells me I have too many lines for one hand. I ask him what that means and he says he’ll have to consult a second opinion. But then he tells me that while I’m waiting for the answer I should check-out the musical review at my hotel.
Every morning I order breakfast and just get a bill.
I have a new job playing charades for cab drivers who don’t understand me.
How many times can you watch your ex-wife’s sex tape online without wanting to give directions?
The front desk have allowed too many people into my dreams.
(c) Frank Howson 2014
