Space dementia

I am in a nitenite hotel. It’s a bit like a Bloc hotel, but the rooms are smaller. It’s not quite a capsule hotel, more like a prison cell on a space ship. The air conditioning gently throbs and hums in the background, while the live feed on the wall-mounted Telescreen TV — from a camera on the roof — gives you a low resolution view of the city, all grey and depressing. You soon get used to the lack of windows and stare at the city. Forever.

The corridors in this place are the longest I’ve ever seen. They seem to go on forever, like an optical illusion, but one that eventually ends with a snack machine selling overpriced KitKats and wine gums.

If Lovecraft were alive today, I think one of his protagonists would end up here, alone, going insane, writhing in their own filth, complimenting the lobby, with its Wetherspoons-esque chairs and book shelves, discussing the endless spiral stairs that take you to the infinity corridors.

All in all, it’s quite nice, as long as you don’t mind feeling like you’re going a bit peculiar. The bed’s comfy, there’s a wet room, a writing desk, and a control panel next to the bed that only adds to the effect that you might actually be floating through the heavens on a spacecraft, the memories of your suburban life a cruel trick the brain is playing on you as it suffers the effects of space dementia.

Free Wi-Fi, too.

8/10, would sleep here again.

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