Entry #1 [Accidental Video Post // Public] [Monday morning, Day 1 of his stay]
[The video post begins with a clear view of the ceiling, before something--fluffy and gold and gleaming faintly, almost looking like some kind of tassel--comes into view, wrapping around the edge of the journal and tilting it up to stand on its end. From the faint clunk and rustle, it sounds like the journal is an honest-to-god book. Now the view is primarily a wall--a familiar one, namely the wall behind the hotel's reception desk--and.... part of a rug?]
[To be fair, it's a very nice rug. The colors are rich and vibrant, the patterns bold and elegant, the pile deep and thick and undoubtedly very soft, the fabrics sumptuous. It's a masterpiece of textile craftsmanship, and probably extraordinarily expensive. But more importantly than that, it's not a rug that's been seen anywhere in the hotel before--and it's moving.]
[The rug ripples a little, poking itself with a tassel that is twisted into a shape that looks disconcertingly like a human hand, a gesture strangely akin to someone tapping their chin in thought. It twists a little, as though it were looking around--as though it actually has eyes to do so with--and wraps the other tassel around the opposite edge of the book, turning it this way and that to evidently examine the cover and spine; the view of the video feed swings wildly. It's set down again soon after, once again flat on the desk, and something is picked up--a long, elegant plume that looks like a peacock feather, the end damp with ink, despite there being no inkwell in sight. The tassel is folded awkwardly around the feather, gripping it without much dexterity, and a few fallen drops of ink splatter onto the page--and consequently, the video feed--as it tries to write.]
[All it manages to accomplish, however, is a few awkward marks before the feather slips from its grasp, leaving a smear of ink from where it tumbled. It tries once again, with little more success, then gives up, dropping the feather into the middle of the feed, the crack between pages. Its upper corners fold over each other, remarkably like someone crossing their arms and huffing in frustration. Finally, it picks the book back up and starts moving; the view is a bizarre, quick-moving pan over the ceiling, from what can be seen past the edge of the rug and before the book closes entirely, ending the post.]
[It almost looks as though both book and rug are actually flying, somehow. But that's impossible, right?]
[Just as impossible as mobile, expressive rugs.]
[To be fair, it's a very nice rug. The colors are rich and vibrant, the patterns bold and elegant, the pile deep and thick and undoubtedly very soft, the fabrics sumptuous. It's a masterpiece of textile craftsmanship, and probably extraordinarily expensive. But more importantly than that, it's not a rug that's been seen anywhere in the hotel before--and it's moving.]
[The rug ripples a little, poking itself with a tassel that is twisted into a shape that looks disconcertingly like a human hand, a gesture strangely akin to someone tapping their chin in thought. It twists a little, as though it were looking around--as though it actually has eyes to do so with--and wraps the other tassel around the opposite edge of the book, turning it this way and that to evidently examine the cover and spine; the view of the video feed swings wildly. It's set down again soon after, once again flat on the desk, and something is picked up--a long, elegant plume that looks like a peacock feather, the end damp with ink, despite there being no inkwell in sight. The tassel is folded awkwardly around the feather, gripping it without much dexterity, and a few fallen drops of ink splatter onto the page--and consequently, the video feed--as it tries to write.]
[All it manages to accomplish, however, is a few awkward marks before the feather slips from its grasp, leaving a smear of ink from where it tumbled. It tries once again, with little more success, then gives up, dropping the feather into the middle of the feed, the crack between pages. Its upper corners fold over each other, remarkably like someone crossing their arms and huffing in frustration. Finally, it picks the book back up and starts moving; the view is a bizarre, quick-moving pan over the ceiling, from what can be seen past the edge of the rug and before the book closes entirely, ending the post.]
[It almost looks as though both book and rug are actually flying, somehow. But that's impossible, right?]
[Just as impossible as mobile, expressive rugs.]