The floor beneath me begins to feel like part of my body， and my breathing is growing heavier， slower. I want to sleep， shut my eyes and lie my head down on this cold， dusty floor. Drift off.
When I wake up， maybe I will discover that everything I saw in the hotel bathroom was part of a dream： the water drops dripping from the faucet and landing with a plink into the bloody bathwater the left arm dangling over the side of the tub， the blood-soaked razor sitting on the toilet tank--the same razor I had shaved with the day before--and his eyes， still half open but light less.
