Diary
09AUG
The city won't stop moving even at 2am. I can hear the trains from here, the low hum of electricity, someone laughing somewhere far below. I bought this notebook at the hotel lobby — it's cheap paper, thin, but the watermark says the name of the place in embossed gold. I write in them and leave them behind. Someone will find them eventually, or no one will. Either way, the city keeps smearing itself into light outside my window and I keep writing.
Mood: quiet observer
20JUL
The train came and went and I stayed. There's something about hotel stationery — the weight of it, the blankness. I wrote nothing important. Just sat with the hum of the city and the strangers passing. Sometimes the quiet is the only thing that's yours.
Mood: Contemplative, still, softly melancholic
07JUL
The parking deck smells like exhaust and rain that never came. I sit with my back against the chain-link and write on hotel stationery — the good kind, the thin cream paper that bleeds if you press too hard. Below, the city is a river of taillights. Above, nothing moves except the grain in the sky. I write: 'I am the still point in the turning world.' Then I cross it out. Too dramatic. I write: 'Tonight I am quiet.' That'll do.
Mood: serene