Imagine you are in the room of a hotel near the railway station. At night you hear the sound of train wheels rattle on the rail-switches. It transports you immediately to stories of unknown men and women arriving in somnolent towns. They each come from a different direction, in order to meet, it may as well be in the room next to yours. Sad escape attempts from bare afternoons of predestined lives, hissing valves of desire through which the last bit of air rushes out. Not much later you hear the yearning and sighing of bodies in the night.
The pale light of morning disseminates through the half-open blinds in the room. The window looks over a messy courtyard. Broken architectural lines of the loose ends of houses arise through narrow half-closed paths, infinitely interconnected on this spot by chance, before they disintegrate into bits and pieces of negligence.
You are probably a day early or too late, or got out at the wrong place. No one showed up and funnily enough great relief was hidden under that superficial impatience. The Hotel de la Gare is jaded and rancid but only so is it just right. The worn, now uncleanable carpeting on the creaking wooden floor, matches seamlessly with that vague mixture of flight, guilt and painful histories.
A continuous stream of fragments of memories. The most empty make falling asleep possible. The art is in finding that one empty memory. Whenever that is not possible, the night will shatter and splinter in ever-new wakes, and you will become more and more exhausted, at a place and time you do not want to be.