Woke up —
don’t know when, how, or how long it’s been.
Found myself in a strange situation,
maybe still high from the night before.
Heard voices in the dark,
got up, walked to the door.
Everything was different —
the walls breathing slow,
the air humming low.
I wasn’t home.
Every step echoed like a question.
Did I dream this place,
or did it dream me first?
Déjà vu,
je n’suis jamais venu ici,
mais j’ai l’impression de n’être jamais parti.
Elle disait que le temps se plie sur lui-même —
peut-être que c'est ça qu'elle voulait dire.
When I opened the door
I felt like Dorothy —
a rainbow of fractured light
bleeding through the corridor.
Déjà vu.
I’ve never been here,
but it feels like I never left.
A lover once said
that time folds in on itself.
The windows are bricked in.
No view, no escape —
just whispers and wallpaper patterns
that shift when I blink.
Déjà vu,
je n’suis jamais venu ici,
mais j’ai l’impression de n’être jamais parti.
Elle disait que le temps se plie sur lui-même —
peut-être que c'est ça qu'elle voulait dire.
I’m lost
in the echoes of this surreal hotel.
Every door stands open
except one.
Room 907.
Locked.
Something in me wants to know.
Something wiser says don't.
So I keep walking —
barefoot through the hum of fluorescent ghosts,
past the door that watches me back.
Room 907.
Maybe that's where I left myself.