(no subject)
in the upstairs bedroom, he peels stiffening clothes from his body, rinses the ocean smell from them in the bathtub and hangs them in the empty closet to dry. the gestures are strangely habitual to him. the loosening of his tie, unbuttoning his collared shirt top to bottom. he washes his face in the sink, slicks his hair back with cold water, and stares into his own dark eyes.
he watches his reflection blink slowly back at him and wonders why he can't remember his name, or how this place has lulled him into thinking it doesn't matter. there's only this nagging feeling of expectation, like he's waiting for something but he can't be sure what it is. his mind keeps sabotaging itself, every time he thinks he gets close to figuring it out.
paradox.
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