October 26, 2006
Lying in the hotel bed, I try not to think about its previous occupants or their activities. It's about the worst place I have ever stayed in. My mind drifts to my apartment: an eccentric place which used to be the woodworking shop of a coffin factory, more than a century ago. Despite its oddities and drawbacks, I have grown to love its old brick walls, its rough cement floors, its skylights and flower boxes and the privacy of my own front door. I feel a lot safer in that place with its creepy past than anywhere else, especially here.