Dawn and Dust, first draft

note: conceived and written in 36 hours.

Puce streaks in the air where puce golf shirts struck a stream of shuffling gesticulations through the sunken soup of the hotel lobby’s sunkenmost dry grotto. The Burger King franchisees stumble out of a ballroom flank, every tenth in a paper crown, the crazy guy, every tenth person self-diagnosed convention rabble-rouser, microcosmic emcee, burghermeister, king for a slightly long weekend. What a long dry weekend. Little sun and no blue sky wend from inaccessible vestigial hallways on high floors above the lobby. When seen from high above the carpet at the bottom of the hotel looks like a perfect lake surface in a colander of a rainstorm with centers whose concentric rings obliterate each other in unresolved geometries.