The old man in the hostel room never stops coughing. You swear he is dead every time he goes in and spits out what must be an egg sized phlem.
You toss and turn, no hostel is comfortable.
You feel awkward being in a steady stream of white, slowy ebbing to and fro locations. You’ve always made fun of the tourist groups, now you are one. There is no blending in.
He is still coughing.
Tourism can make any country feel like dinsey land. But how else would you see it all without a local friend?
You buy a knock off catch-22 book, xeroxed from the original, its green.
It feels good to have a book so dear.
But that guy is still fucking coughing.

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