On the afternoon of Sunday, Feb. 25, I drive to West Hollywood to spend a night at a hotel. I want to imagine what it would be like to live in one. There is too much noise in my head, and I am trying to clear it. I keep picturing a clean, fresh hotel room, a kind of blank slate — a chance to start anew, step into another life. I decide to keep a time log and write a diary entry for the 19 hours I am about to spend living out this experiment. I arrive at the hotel. It is called Hotel 850 SVB, a... Read this story
