3 a.m. i’m in a hot box motel in Merritt. the lights in the bathroom don’t work and i lie awake and wonder why. the kids are asleep directly next door and i wonder about a serial killer who vanishes them in the middle of this night. construct a narrative.
i turn to the window. the drapes are an inch apart–gamma rays seep through in little bursts. the AC clicks off. i’m in a hotter box motel in Merritt. and i think about the motel that i once worked in, with it’s sacred courtyard pool, perpetually out of order. the concrete was cracked. i remember the smell of pinesol, and the silverfish that lapped the baseboards. the work at the paradise motel was hard.
how’s the writing going?