The Colonial Motel could be called, among other things, a pretty shabby place and a motel-for-men-only (although I do recall seeing a woman here). For me though, it will always be a place of mystery. It will always, in a certain way, be a beautiful place.
Because there - because here, on the front porch among bushes, palmtrees, little brown lizards and countless ant colonies, is where I first saw her.

Even now, during the time I am stuck here (three more hours), more or less by force majeur, I know she is close, 15 minutes or so from here. And she was here last night, just a few metres away from where I'm sitting.
This feels good to know. It probably sounds silly as hell, but when you talk a lot to someone you've never met, everything, however small, that makes you feel closer to an actual, physical person, is immensely important.
Before, I used to be jealous of all the people fortunate enough to get to be close to her, see her now and then, hear her talk, or just sit next to her on a bus or walk by her on the street.
The lucky people. What I wouldn't give to be in their place. But of course, maybe then everything would be different.

So, now that I'm here, on her territory, seeing things she know, it feels good. Maybe her atoms still floats around here (for me to inhale) and maybe they don't. Maybe her voice can't be heard anymore, maybe the rubber from her soles has been worn off the asphalt. Maybe the air isn't warmer from her presence anymore. Maybe.

But I feel good sitting here. Because this is where I first saw her.
This is where she was
last night.