Thinking about people who clean hotel rooms.
Isn’t it eerie? To walk the silent, repetitive halls, knowing you will find an identical room behind each door. Each stitch in the patterned carpet, repeating endlessly, is burned into your memory. At this point you could find anything in one of them with your eyes closed. The beds in their exact positions, the lamp hanging above, the chair in the corner, the TV with its infinite streams of Teen Titans Go. You can’t help but find forgotten items. Here’s a half-empty tube of toothpaste sitting by the sink. Here’s a sock left on the floor. Here, lovingly tucked into bed, is a stuffed animal from some forgetful child. You can’t help but wonder about these people, why they were here and where they were going. It doesn’t matter. You wipe away all memory of their stay, of their existence at this place, and return the room to the chilling symmetry.