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A room to spend no time in
The phone in the Pacific Sands Motel LA ( No longer extant ) with the red flashing light on top. Each fingered, grease smeared, button worn smooth by countless contacts, unloved, scattered or burried now. You pull back the bed covers to a murmuration of flies and a large, greying, growing wet stain which you will not sleep on under any circumstance. There is almost nothing else in this room apart from five pot plants, well tended, on a rust coloured credenza. You leave. Lock the door. You are not sure why you lock the room, you have left nothing of your own inside not even your repulsion. ( That no-one in their right mind would want nor want to stay here seems beyond doubt ) You idly wonder what sickening stories the pillows have to tell, whereupon a horror, of a seismic magnitude, overwhelms you.
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