My naked body, bereft it felt of life, slipped into the water of the most
generic tub I had ever entered. The top of the water licked and lapped
at the edge, some sneaking silently over and down to the floor. It
secretly moistened the pages of Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past".
This generic tub in this generic bathroom with the generic blow dryer attached to the generic wall. All of this was identical to the other 397 rooms in this, an
obviously generic, hotel. With all the similarities it shared with so
many I felt only MORE alone.
I felt the all too familiar and severely
common sensation of tears burning themselves and pushing into to the
backs of my eyes. I pulled my head underwater and in doing so moistened
more of Proust's pages. With each rolling sob that filled my lungs out
would flow an amount of hope in each of the mis-shapen bubbles.