She enters Room 207 and descends into a manic episode, triggered by the beige claustrophobia of the four walls, the beige air conditioning unit, the warm yellow lighting, the mass-produced printed artwork hanging over the bed in its honey wood frame, exactly matching the honey-sweet wood furniture. The details are so blandly homogeneous they merge into a beige abyss, vision muddling, an inability to articulate her surroundings, sense of reality curdling, abstracting as her body begins fracturing. She's bleeding, convulsing, she soaks the sheets until everything is crimson. Shades of red, shades of sanity stained with insanity, eyes bloodshot and chest heaving.
It's sunny outside, a brisk wind, warm nonetheless. A two-story motel on the intersection, two rows of innocent windows, contents concealed by plasticky beige curtains. A massive parking lot with 4 cars, burning incense wafting from a ground floor door left ajar, presumably the innkeeper's. Some brown shrubbery.
Room 207 is soiled. The air smells metallic, the red quickly turning brown as the iron oxidizes. All she needs is fresh air, all she wants is sunlight. She opens the door, basks in the air for a moment, until she inevitably loses control. The moment she calms, she's overstimulated, her senses pushing her into another spastic attack.
The wind picks her up, slams her down, at once she is dancing, barefoot until the soles of her feet are raw, her shadows mix with the vertical ones projected by the railings, the long diagonal lines interspersed with golden, they bind her, she crumples to the ground.