I rotate and walk back into my hotel room, closing the smoked-glass sliding doors behind me, and then fall back-ward into my cool Fortrel-sheeted bed, when suddenly a new feeling washes over me – a feeling at once destructive, romantic, and grand – like falling into a swimming pool dressed in a tuxedo. I have this feeling no room is ever really quiet; this feeling that even in the quietest, emptiest, and most uneventful of rooms there is always an event of profound importance occurring. This event is Time itself, foaming, raging and boiling like a river, roaring through this room and through all rooms – Time flowing through the beds, gushing from the minibars and churning from the mirrors, and Time, with its grand, unfightable sweep, taking me along with it.
