That familiar hotel with a pungent air of tainted leather.
My bed was atop a loft (a falling-apart gallery that is, the type of gallery where it'd be jammed with people overlooking the stage as in Les Enfants du Paradis). My bed was going to collapse any minute now. It's got bed bugs all over; its wooden body is just barely holding itself together. A lumpy, oddly-dusty mattress was hung over it like a corpse, suggesting no sense of comfort.

It is the hotel that reappears in my dreams frequently these days; yet, I didn't notice this until tonight, as I felt a strong sense of recognition being in this scene.
Naturally, this hotel is not populated at all. It is falling apart like a terrible ghost shack,
and I have all my intentions to leave but I simply can not.

The smell is so distinctive, I just can't.

*        *        *

Facing the busiest, most car-populated street ever, there is a 2 story building with its walls made from glass. Heavy beige curtains made from camel's skin are draped all over, ceasing the killer-sunshine from pouring into the room.
I am in the bed at the corner, my curtains opened just slightly so as I can see the view.
There is no view.
"I'm waiting for my rocket," I say, and someone replies, "But how do you make the rocket?"
The room shakes, racking up the city into shredding bits.