the blowtorch and the blast furnace

— New York.

You push the door shut. The door of your all-white, perfectly rectangular hotel room. Feel the surgical-grade steel handle turn smoothly in your hand.

Behind the door, the wall. Smooth. Immaculate. White.

You draw your arm back. Ball your hand into a fist. Punch the wall.

The plaster cracks, craters. A splintered bull’s eye.

— London.

You push the door shut. Your perfect room. The steel handle.

The wall is smooth, white.

You make a fist.

The plaster cracks.

— Tokyo.





— New York. Reykjavik. London. Paris. Berlin. Moscow. Mumbai. Shanghai. Tokyo. Los Angeles.

Close the door, make the fist, punch the wall. And again. And again. And again.

— New York.

And the wall cracks, craters.

— London

A palimpsest written in paint and plaster.

— Tokyo

A hundred holes in a hundred walls in a hundred hotels in a hundred cities.

— New York

You draw back your arm, but realise it’s not enough, it’s never enough.

The white wall stares at you, blind like all the rest. Smooth. Immaculate.

You take the white-headed matches from the white matchbox.

You set the fire.

And wait.

Soon, the white walls will turn black.


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