The music will take you away if you listen to it long enough. Take you through your memories as if you were living them until the bell rings for supper. You only call it music because you don't know a better word for emotions flowing through air, sensed through the ear.
The floors are marble, the walls stone, the structure undefined. It reminds you of the school in that way, but it is not magic that changes the walls and moves the stairs. You have finally understood that it is only perception that shapes the world. Here, understanding this, you can make this world anything you'd like. But the framework stays the same, no matter how you try to change it, and you suppose that is your subconscious, your innermost self. The thing that makes you love your mother even when you wish you had the courage to wring her neck.
There are others here, of course. Criminals and scoundrels and heroes and martyrs all blend together as they pass through the rooms of this hotel, lost in their own perceptions. It is only Her who keeps you here, the lady with no name because She is the only She here. All the rest are male. You all come together for supper, where the roast beast struggles as the servant struggles to cut it while the lady laughs and laughs and laughs.
She reminds you of your cousin Bella, so you have given her Bella's face and your mother's habits, but really she is the only one on whom your perceptions do not effect. She dresses like a queen and is as beautiful as a goddess when she lays naked on the canopied bed underneath you.
She is the curtain.
You know this because you cry when you thrust into her, you hear the rustling of unreal fabric around your head as you come, and you are suffused in the moment where you saw them all before it went dark as she holds you close in a motherly embrace.
You know she does this for all of them, round and round and round. You can even go in and watch, sitting on a velvet chair in the corner and watching the memories that are not your own flowing around the room. It feels something like rude, though, so you don't intrude often.
It is nothing like life, this hovering, naked existence. There are days and nights, but only because you wish them so. The music rises and falls as it pleases and hums through your bones until you can't stand it any more. Every time, the faceless, nameless servant tells you: "You can never leave."