“You inhabit one room on one floor. What does the rest matter to you? You are in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers, and the hotel must make you feel comfortable and in place. They are structured illusions. Sculpted psychoactive environments. Mirages.” After we met in the impossible corridor, the woman and I walked a short distance and down a flight of stairs to the hotel bar. A hotel bar. The bar of a Way Inn in a Canadian city, where it was snowing and the sun had not long set. Some e...arly diners were in the restaurant. Men and women came in from outdoors in bulky jackets, stamping slush off their boots. They all looked hearty, red-cheeked and wholesome. I was not dressed for snow but I was not cold. The lobby was the same temperate climate as all the other Way Inn lobbies across the world, neither too hot nor too cold. And why not—they were all the same building. She was explaining, or trying to explain. A divergent pseudostructure. A non-Euclidean manifold. A prism projecting a hypersurface onto our space-time from a point . . .MoreLessRead More Read Less
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