. . . . in which i am in the mystery hotel again. i am taking one of many elevators, but it doesn’t seem to go to where i need it. it is nighttime, dark with neon pink/purple lights. i get off on some floor, with the intention of walking to another elevator or set of stairs that will take me where i am headed. i have a vague recollection of losing the boundary between the hallway and the rooms, and i end up in someone else’s room. i try to make clear that it was a mistake and go on my way . . . it is clear that i am not on the ground floor, but now i open a door and, inexplicably, i am outside, on firm ground, and it is daytime. ahead of me is a field of grass, overgrown, and on an incline extending away from me. a little way up is a section that seems to be defined as a rectangle, though it’s not clear what the boundary is. there are two girls in this field - one of which i recognize as amber, the other is less distinct, and i do not recognize her as anyone. they are both riding lawnmowers, though they don’t appear to be the kind that you ride on. they are as if racing, anticlockwise, on a circuit that describes roughly the perimeter of the rectangle. the grass is short and bare where they have ridden, but it is long and wild in the middle. though it is a race, neither seems to hold the lead decisively. i begin to have the vague sense that the lawnmower is also a typewriter. i understand now that the activity i am witnessing - in spite of all available evidence - is writing. writing is the thing they are doing and all the other things are just details.
mystery hotel