Third day at the hotel, inert. Vague memories that mingle with the sound of laughter coming from the hallway. Young laughter, smeared with alcohol and good intentions that end in resentment and alimony. Background noise that is not mechanical. It is inside you and establishes a dense mentality, like something trying to slowly shut down. The sound of the sheets when one moves over them. Those slow awakenings that remain in memory. Mouths, skin, something wet. Room service leaving me for dead. Planes flying over LAX with people convinced of their own lives, their beliefs, their possessions.

The whole day locked up, waiting. Conversations as background noise, imagined, practiced out loud to convince me, to recreate something I can't identify. There's a knock at the door. A guy brings food I ordered to keep me busy. I ask him if he's hungry, tell him I can't eat it all. I invite him in. He tells me he can't, he has other errands. He speaks wrapped in tattered clothes, with a Midwestern accent. I tell him that not everything goes the way you expect it to. He looks at me as if I've heard his thoughts. He is startled, turns away. He thanks me and disappears downstairs. The apartment reeks of food seasoned with urgency to trigger a cheap pleasure. For some reason, I remember those nights in the jungle, cooking by the fire, all of us in silence, hypnotized by a life that unexpectedly made sense.