“The assurance that I am going to have a meal tonight is enough to satiate my hunger.”

As I considered turning around, I could feel the delivery boy’s gaze. Unable to make up my mind about looking at a face that would soon be beyond recall, I continued in my monologue, “There’s a five hundred in change under the garbage.”

“Sir, your meal costs a hundred and eighty bucks,” the delivery boy said.

This broke the flow of my thoughts, and the undertones of lamentation plaguing me began to depart prematurely. At this point, I attempted to turn but ended up shifting in my leather couch, revealing my buttcrack. My hand instinctively reached for the left buttcheek, and I scratched it bare, saying, “That’s okay. Get yourself some chai or something.”

I traced his steps out of the room and into the lobby with my ears when it occurred to me that the bellboy had left the door open. I turned on my back, facing up, and looked at the fan.

It bore a thin red scar reflecting the light from the billboards outside. The desperation of the approaching dawn was disheartening to a sleepless maniac such as myself. Nevertheless, I felt well-rested. Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms about sleep. I love sleep. However, my love for sleep is pure. I love it with passion, not out of any need. I believe sleep is meant to be had at leisure.

At some point, my thoughts turned into a discourse, which went on for about an hour when the guests in the adjoining room tried to shut me up. They eventually gave in to their need for sleep, and passion, once again, prevailed. However, the fact that someone would interrupt the great Bono Fodel in his reveries did not go without inspiring some disquiet in my head.

Enraged, I grabbed the prop knife from my bedside and collapsed onto the carpet. A solitary grape was there to greet me. I popped it and looked at the door. A moth buzzed on its way in with comical timing. I grabbed my knife again and began ascending onto the couch. The moth was seated on the felt back lining of the pillow. I moved with stealth and grabbed a hold of its wings.

A young woman in her swimsuit appeared at the door, dripping water. I hurled the moth up like a kite and landed upright on the carpet.

“Sorry, wrong room,” she giggled.

That was the extent of our union. I fell on my back as the moth zipped around. The least she could’ve done is pass me the food.

Ah, yes. The food. What good are animals that don’t fit into an oven anyway?

At this point, I decided that I should attempt to get up. It had been about thirty hours then. At first, I genuinely believed that I had forgotten how to use my legs. Then nature called, and I forsake any doubts I had about the matter. I wished I was on some sort of drug to justify my behavior.

I thought back on the girl. I hate the faces they make when they smile. They think I’m a nuisance and fail to notice my spite. It was almost Kafkaesque. Kafka. It was amusing, the way I made it sound. I remembered it from a play we did in grad school. Kafka. It’s all in the nuances.

“Kafka.”

One must imagine Gregor Samsa happy. So, I smiled. A solitary teardrop rolled down my cheek and, without meaning to, I snorted it.

I got up straight. I was in hell. This isn’t right; where is everyone?

My eyes fell on the cloche. I began crawling up to it. My mouth started watering in anticipation as if I could recall what was underneath it. I had to feed this body. I had to feed this body to my fans. I had to feed this body to my fans’ liking lest I should fail to feed it at all.

I collapsed. There was a time when I would feel hungry. There was a time when I would need sleep. Now, I was more than alive. I was Bono Fodel.

The intercom beeped for a terribly long while before going to voicemail.

“Mr. Patel, this is the wake-up call you requested.”

About time. Just what I needed. This was my wake-up call. Get your shit together, Bono—enough of this.

I got up and looked at myself in the mirror.

“Your car will be ready for you in ten. The production called to inform you that they have sent your lines for today. Your mails are waiting at the reception.”

The more I looked in the mirror, the less I saw myself. For the next two days, I was Bono Fodel. At least for the next two days, I knew who I was.