Doubling over with cramps he gasps for air, clean air, struggles to rid the poison from his lungs, the bile from the complimentary meal, his stomach rebelling. This time heaving uncontrollably he’s unable to make it to the bathroom. With the sleeve of his shirt he wipes off his mouth, stands up and leans against the cool wall of windows for support. Pushing the curtains aside he looks down at Times Square. Must be hallucinating, he thinks. It is vacant, empty of pedestrians. Then again he’s unsure that he is capable of distinguishing between reality and nightmare. Is he awake or asleep? Has he been asleep all this time? Did this really happen? With the plastic Marriott pen he punctures the flesh on his forearm. No, he is not asleep; this is definitely not a dream.
The paper in the vinyl folder with the embossed logo is so clean and crisp. He pages through the Welcome book and looks at the lists—restaurants, shopping, attractions, room service, places of worship. Flashing back to the plaza downtown it appears as an altar of human sacrifice. Like the toxic dump of humanity, mangled among the remains of the supreme excesses of architecture, the
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