The last time I was in London, I stayed in a residency hotel in Clapham. The halls smelled of overgrown children—a specific combination of old cigarettes, alcohol and vomit. It is a smell I associate with an exboyfriend's townhouse in Baton Rouge. Three fellows lived there but there was at least 10 people in the apartment at any given moment. They had no furniture, just a pool table. I remember watching people sitting on it, giving each other crappy tattoos with india ink and a needle. I remember vomiting a lot.

Back to Clapham... When you walk into the building, there is a corridor with rooms on either side. You can see into the rooms via a floor to ceiling glass. On the right side is the checkin area. You speak to the clerk through an opening in the glass. On the left side is the TV room. Although the rooms had their own fridges—many complete with cheap, torn stickers of British pop stars—they lacked televisions. The inhabitants of the hotel were in the TV room, spaced apart like pigeons, staring blankly at the tele. It made me think of Kraftwerk, if Kraftwerk involved dirty and pungent mannequins; a step richer than runaways.

In the park across the street, Ben & Jerry's had sponsored a music festival. Tiny British hiplets going to an ice cream social. I sat on the grass, smoked a lot of cigarettes and scribbled down thoughts in a journal that I can no longer locate.

I wonder who the loneliest people in the world are. I know I don't even come close.