The night just wouldn’t end. The siren song of the toilet was irresistible and constant, the small step inexplicably architected in the middle of the room causing numerous stumbles and stubbed toes. In my fever-induced mania I grew claustrophobic, desperately trying to the find the window I’d seen Liza magically make appear from behind the faux wood panelling. Frustrated, I took a sleeping pill, which worked, thankfully.

Was it morning yet? Our windowless cell of swirling neon colours compelled me to have another crack at finding the window. This time I succeeded, sunshine and air flooding into our discothèque of slumber. I accidentally knocked over the bag of promotional goodies the hotel had left on the window sill, the spilled contents creating a ticker-tape parade of condoms, spermicide, lubricant, cheap cologne, and mysterious feminine products on the unsuspecting pedestrians below.
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