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"
What
?
"
But
even
as
I
snap
the
retort
,
I
can
smell
it
as
well
.
A
fresh
,
invigorating
scent
,
not
unlike
the
incense
back
at
the
Hendrix
,
but
subtly
different
,
not
quite
the
heady
decadence
of
the
original
odour
I
fell
asleep
to
only
…
"
Got
to
go
,
"
says
Jimmy
,
and
I
’
m
about
to
ask
him
where
when
I
realise
he
means
me
and
I
’
m
Awake
.
My
eyes
snapped
open
on
one
of
the
psychedelic
murals
of
the
hotel
room
.
Slim
,
waif
-
like
figures
in
kaftans
dotted
across
a
field
of
green
grass
and
yellow
and
white
flowers
.
I
frowned
and
clutched
at
the
hardened
scar
tissue
on
my
forearm
.
No
blood
.
With
the
realisation
,
I
carne
fully
awake
and
sat
up
in
the
big
crimson
bed
.
The
shift
in
the
smell
of
incense
that
had
originally
nudged
me
towards
consciousness
was
fully
resolved
into
that
of
coffee
and
fresh
bread
.
The
Hendrix
’
s
olfactory
wake
-
up
call
.
Light
was
pouring
into
the
dimmed
room
through
a
flaw
in
the
polarised
glass
of
the
window
.
"
You
have
a
visitor
,
"
said
the
voice
of
the
Hendrix
briskly
.
"
What
time
is
it
?
"
I
croaked
.
The
back
of
my
throat
seemed
to
have
been
liberally
painted
with
supercooled
glue
.
"
Ten
-
sixteen
,
locally
.
You
have
slept
for
seven
hours
and
forty
-
two
minutes
.
"
"
And
my
visitor
?
"
"
Oumou
Prescott
,
"
said
the
hotel
.
"
Do
you
require
breakfast
?
"
