Status Updates From Swann's Way

I read Proust’s 6-page-long account of waking up and finding yourself grasping, in the groggy semi-morning, for the contours and associations of all the bedrooms you’ve ever slept in: stored, somehow, in the negotiation of our limbs with the darkness — while falling asleep myself, after a long day of meetings, in a hotel in a city (Bellevue, WA) I’ve never been to and never imagined I would find myself in