Neutral

I write this sitting in a bare hotel room. Four walls, lino floor, curtains and bedcover all in an indiscriminate shade of nothing at all. A vague attempt at cheeriness has resulted in a faded Kandinsky print, hanging slant on the wall above the single bed. A table with a lamp, a chair, a black plastic phone... the sum of everything composed in those dull items. I've just been to a dinner of pretzels, hot smoked mackarel, pickled cauliflower and cheese, followed by six dancing South Africans in Brazil football shirts, and a dish of cold, wobbly tiramasu. I wonder how I arrived here. The night is black, looking outside is like dipping my head into an inkwell.

This time tomorrow I'll be home, and this nothingness will cease to exist, for me.