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Truths emerge amongst those of us who are destined to live in old city hotels. One of these is that you rarely get to know why a man has arrived from nowhere one day with a couple of suitcases. Another is that you will sometimes catch a glimpse of a man's suffering without him realising the full extent of it himself. The languid atmosphere upstairs is not conducive to friendship. There is only the intermittent drone of the ventilation fan and a musty odour mixed with the concrete dust smell riggers and scaffolders bring home from building sites. Down the dimly-lit hallway are a dozen doorways, and behind these reside a dozen separate men. In the morning they drift down the ...