[ NASH is walking down a very long hallway. So long, in fact, the trail of red string behind him extends off-stage. It is wrapped around his wrist and connected to something we can't see.
Although the corridor is homey, the stench of mildew and long vacations clouds his senses. It is how one would expect a hotel to look, except that it resembles no hotel that has ever been seen before. There are bowls of neatly wrapped peppermints on the tables every 25 feet. The lamp sconces vary in age and appearance; some could've been manufactured and unpackaged yesterday, and others look as if they were dug up from an archeological site and stored in an archive for years on end. The lights flicker periodically. Light bulbs of varying light temperature conflict as they buzz and hum and sing with power and life.
He is sweating. The pack he carries is half-empty, although the pockets of his cargo shorts are entirely full. The band his shirt belongs to has faded off the fabric from years of use and wear. He has been walking for about two days now. He has realized this point, but because it doesn't affect him, he is completely ambivalent to his physical strain. He's on the verge of worsening his emaciation, cheeks hollow but body still strong and lithe with use. He wouldn't know when to eat anyway; every clock he passes is set to a different time. He stops briefly, looks behind him, and keeps walking. He contemplates if his hotelmates would tug on the string if they needed him. He gives it a testy tug.
The lights go out. ]

[ The lighter flicks on after several attempts, and in its light is NASH's face. He knew it was going to happen sooner or later. He grabs a peppermint for moral support and puts it in his pocket. ]

[ NASH fumbles in his pocket and pulls something out not illuminated by the light. His facial expression is warped and distorted by the shadows across his face. ]

[ He pauses and turns around. He keeps turning until the string wraps around his chest. Something is pulling it taut. He stands upright, the picture of masculinity, still in the dark, and tries not to look extremely baffled. ]

[ Buzzing and humming is heard on the other side of the wall. It was not there before. ]

[ NASH turns around again, looking at the floor and stooping low to see it. The string wraps around his chest once more. Something is still pulling it taut. ]

[ It goes quiet, and the buzzing and humming briefly harmonizes before distorting into cacophonous noise. ]

[ The end of the string is dropped into NASH's open, waiting hand. He instinctively grasps it in his fist, holding it for himself. ]

[ Delirious with starvation, NASH complies again, opening his hand and cradling the frayed end of the string. ]

[ To find the voice, he holds out the lighter. It flickers and weakens, but it continues to burn strong. ]

[ Just as NASH opens his mouth to talk, the lights come on again.
He is alone and in the open. He stands in a corridor. It is still dated. It is still modern. It is still the same one he was standing in. However, in the dark, it has flipped somehow, even though his bodily position has remained the same. He has not changed his net orientation with the turning. He has been led to believe he has.
The string points a different way in the light than it did in the dark. He cradles it. His fingers twitch as if to close, but he hesitates.
He keeps walking. Voices emerge in the distance. He steps into a new room. ]