Room service
I'm living at a hotel in my own city. It's one of those 70s buildings, conveniently located close to my workplace, but far from the economic and touristic areas of Madrid. Guests are usually businessmen who spend as little time as possible at the hotel. This could be described as my case.

The feeling of living in a hotel room when your own apartment is 15 minutes away is very strange and reckless. Very Lost In Translation. I arrive there, i sit on the bed, i turn the tv on and i wonder how long it will take me to fall asleep this time. This is foreign land in my hometown. This is weird.

Morning comes and i let the lift take me to the breakfast room, where i eat fresh fruit and i drink revolting coffee, surrounded by equally sleepy coworkers who smile a lot and talk very little. At this point there are only three more silent breakfasts to go until i can go back home.

Today i am a 21st Century Dorothy, rubbing my red slippers together, whispering "there's no place like home, there's no place like home". May The Wicked Witch of the East stop blowing her winds and let us have a peaceful end of championships and we can all return home.