Number Forty Eight

If you walk into a hotel, you expect to be taken care of.  You expect to be safe.

The room surrounds you with silence.  No voice penetrates the walls and drapes.  The pain in the street, the angry running men, the shadows calling out for help cannot reach you.

You are safe.  You are contained.  The ones who wait for you to come, you cannot find.  The ones who have something to tell you, you cannot hear.

You are safe.  Comfortable.  You turn on the TV, watching a disaster too far away to imagine.  You have a drink.  And then sleep comes.

Now the sun is behind the curtain.  Bright but distant.  It is the same everywhere.  Death is the same everywhere.  Pain is the same everywhere.  The room protects you only from life.