They arrived at a black door and Sylvia, her guide, passed a pendant across a mechanism that clicked.  Margaret gasped as she entered her room, her sanctuary.  On the walls, there were posters of Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Peter Frampton.  On a bedside table a crimson lava lamp oozed as if it had been on for hours.  Half stuffed bean bag chairs littered the dense hotel carpet in front of a mahogany entertainment center.  Complete with a record player and what appeared at first glance to be an even larger record collection than the one she left back home.  

Melting black candles surrounded her alter of music.  A wall mounted television was the only modern addition to her fortress of solitude.  The place she had retreated to, as a teenager, when things at home...

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