Gray light like in Damascus again. Monotone music without beat or melody.

Walking hallway where nothing happened. Then he tried to open them (doors?) with the strength of his own bare hands but that did not work. Next he pressed alarm button or intercom that was supposed to connect him to reception but in the end nothing worked.

*

Long time coma reception in strange colour walls.

*

Every once in a while there was a conference in the hotel, or large high society mid-century wedding that spiralled out of the ballroom (?) to include all kinds of mayhem and drunken antics into corridors thus making it nearly impossible for ordinary hard working people to sleep and making other guests very restless.

*

J. explore a bit more of coma town, that was constantly thick with fog at that time, in vain hope he might find out something to help investigations. Friday night he stayed in and read a book (Airport by Arthur & Bill Hailey), also reading document of numbers the tall woman gave him on his first day in town. Only now the document had childhood pictures and writing, not numbers anymore.

*

It was on ‘once such evening’ around May of the year [illegible] that Jobin decided to go back to Café Myopia again, now full of old people, tough girls and cute boys.

Fragments of memory and overheard conversation:

“an illness typical of that part of Endland © (sic) and . . .”

“whip the animals until they are beaten is what our Frank used to say”

“Clusterfuck”

Laughter (receptionists?) draws a bright neon path across through the air.

Graffiti in a public toilet:

WHITE PEOPLE SAY RACE DOES NOT MATTER

THE SAME WAY RICH PEOPLE SAY MONEY DOES NOT MATTER

Cracks in a mirror that look like traces of roads.

*

J spent several long time in bed without leaving the room for no reason then slept delirious in four (4) days, body wracked with all kind of shakes and shivers, feverish feeling and tensions. Coma sweats. An anonymous hotel employee that he had formed a kind of ambiguous friendship in the previous years came several times banging at the door, insisting to bring a locksmith from the town to remedy the situation but soon there was such a commotion around in the corridor and Raised Voices from within and without, that security came and kicked the whole door down to plywood splinters anyway, dragging Jobbin naked but for his pyjamas from the bed and pretty much destroying his complex arrangement of numbers and strings, wool, tape, evidence and post-it notes to himself etc. There lay Jobbin at the end of this episode in tears ‘when the credits rolled’, his mission in tatters, hotel dissolving in rain, cheap door hanging loose from its hinges.

*