The Thirteenth Floor

Formally a frequent traveler I always stayed at the same low-rent hotel on Desolation Row. It is about a dozen steps from the airport. I always booked the same room. The 13th floor has a 24-hour party going on. Mostly musician types attend playing out their latest dramas in front of one another; seeking acceptance for their insecurities, coming and going at the speed of light. The register at the front desk is full of pseudonyms and esoteric signatures. No one wants anyone on the outside to know they attend the party. The only thing genuine about the guests is their inability to reflect one another's moods.
A supporting cast in this theatre of the absurd features a range of performers whose credits read like a Who's Who of the DSM IV-TR. The best of the lot have achieved their accolades not for their supporting roles but as antagonists and anti-heroes. Sincerity is measured out with an eyedropper. Roles are exchanged, credits confused, everyone talks at once. There is a great deal of noise but not a sound is heard. A Pantomime occurs within scripted text. A circle in Dante's taxonomy would closely resemble the party on the 13th floor.
Nothing of consequence ever happens. Stream of consciousness flows much like the Sirocco winds from across the Sahara. Each cast member has their role to play and if someone's line is stepped on the group collectively descends on the usurper and they are denounced. To be expelled from the party is a great shame for a performer. The party goes on, often in whispers. Love, Hate, Death, Avarice, Gluttony go unchecked. The play is over but the performances never cease. The Playbill promises around the clock action.
I won't be traveling to Desolation Row any time soon. I have a few cans of soup, cigarettes, a lighter, a rubber sheet, and a pail to vomit in to. With the dawn comes a new day bright with the promise of a thousand tomorrows; each unique but with a memory of what might have been.