LIVING AND DYING

One of my dreams is to spend my later life in a cheap hotel in the centre of Berlin or some other big European city.
Last night, in that hotel, wide carpeted corridors, a lift to the top floor, and a large ornate door opened with a key was up my sleeve.
Inside, a room to recieve guests and entertain, bedroom and en-suite bathroom through seperate doorways. A television, housed in a cheap dark veneered unit in the corner by the window, played snow and hissed noise.
‘I don’t know what I’m looking for,’ I said to the shadow I removed from the wall using an oak lever encrusted with jewels.
‘You look for whatever you see,’ said the shadow. ‘Take it from there.’
The paint was peeling from the walls of the room, sofa and armchair worn, carpet threadbare, rug over the worst part, off-white blinds from Ikea. I felt right at home, happy to have found somewhere I could imagine living and dying.