#274

The hotel rose overhead, a structure of plaster and dust, a few pieces of it torn away like an abandoned site. Strips of yellowing grass between parking lots. Above, the pinkish sky. Myers could be anywhere right now. Further proof of the great lack of imagination on the part of humanity: to look at the land and see the sameness that one sees in one's heart. No one should spend their life going through places like this. One's mind and soul may look like this, but to have to see it outside oneself was really just too much.

Deb Olin Unferth · Vacation

(I haven't actually read the whole stuff; I'm just translating a few pages of it for uni. Which means: I'm doing interesting stuff. Yay!)