Residence Inn, Baton Rouge

Reading, writing and arithmetic (counting quarters for hotel laundry) is how I spend my April evenings. By night, thoroughly sterilized in white towels and white sheets, I am left with an iodine mind. I lay down and ask myself the old questions with strict repetition. “What am I? And what the hell should I be?” It is better to battle the idea here, where I can at least look down and know what I am not. Yes, better here than for it to find me hiding in a foothill tributary of Alabama, or exploring a Montana prairie stream, or, God forbid, while I’m happy. Such a thought there, without any mental defense of want or fear, could kill a man.

I rearrange all the furniture, as if to barricade my sanity.