secret motel

I want to buy a nice suit. I want to wear a nice suit. And sit, drinking, in hotel lounges of distant cities. In my nice suit. Drinking and talking with objectivists and libertarians about limited government and anarcho-capitalism. As someone who doesn't run with crowds, I can run with a crowd for a night and enjoy myself. If it's the right crowd. I want to enjoy myself. I want to enjoy drinks and conversation. I want to feel human again. I want to feel, for one evening, that there is a place for me on this planet. There have been occasions, without any effort on my part, when people believed me to be smarter and more talented than I really am. I'm not sure what made them believe that. I tend to be a man of few words. When people talk to me, I just listen and occasionally nod my head. I guess they think I agree with them. And, if someone agrees with you, they must be exceptionally intelligent. Right? I want to be comfortable and at-ease in my suit. I want to be one of the last patrons in the hotel lounge at closing time. But, preferably, there will be no closing time. There will be no sunrise, until I consent. I want to write poems and give them to strange women I pass in the hallways. I want you, dear imaginary reader, to be one of those women. I'll invite you to meet me for drinks on the hotel roof--or to breakfast at a highway diner at 10 a.m.. I hope you'll think I look good in my suit. Because I will soon have to return it to the coast, to the lighthouse or the fog bank. And I'll return my life to green shadows of secret motel, my pale body dying beneath old clothes. And I'll remain silent and nod my head without anyone thinking I'm smart.