Still
What lay behind the '70s mint green motel door labeled "480D" in gold paint is a man who dreams of times already passed, wishing to forget the time passing through. On top of the starchy, rough bedding of the full-sized bed, he lays waiting. He lies for hours, staring at the water-stained ceiling, bubbled up in the corner and peeling directly above him. No one comes. No one ever comes.
As the sun sets, it casts an organic shade of red over everything. Leaking in through the white slatted blinds in his motel room, a pattern of red horizontal lines attacks the wall. A reminder that time waits for no one, and that he is no exception. He turns over onto his right side, bringing his knees close to his chest, and releases the air in his lungs in one long sigh.
He stares anxiously at the long blue vein running up his arm. Thoughts endlessly racing through his head, he's paralyzed from the chaos. His mind in uproar against his body, he struggles to resist.
A hard-shell slate green suitcase sits by the door for its third day, unopened, completely abandoned. Waiting by the door frame, it urges him to leave, to move on, to start anew.
As the sun sets, it casts an organic shade of red over everything. Leaking in through the white slatted blinds in his motel room, a pattern of red horizontal lines attacks the wall. A reminder that time waits for no one, and that he is no exception. He turns over onto his right side, bringing his knees close to his chest, and releases the air in his lungs in one long sigh.
He stares anxiously at the long blue vein running up his arm. Thoughts endlessly racing through his head, he's paralyzed from the chaos. His mind in uproar against his body, he struggles to resist.
A hard-shell slate green suitcase sits by the door for its third day, unopened, completely abandoned. Waiting by the door frame, it urges him to leave, to move on, to start anew.
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