Hotels are dead spaces, built in the angles between hello and goodbye. Identities are boiled down into names, faces blur and blend. A steady stream of bodies that we’ve leaned to forget. Our life is contained in endlessly forgetting. The wet crescent of an abandoned
I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels over the years. Not traveling salesmen amounts of hotels, but a fair few. Bland hotels, fancy hotels, cheap hotels, so on and so forth. A variety, is the point I’m getting at. This hotel’s got some weird deco.
The first thing you need to know, I suppose, is that this isn’t a story. There’s no beginning or middle here, just an end; though there will be moments, many many moments, and they will all be true. That will hurt the most. You remember
I sit here, and I watch him. The other one, in the mirror. I made the mistake of looking away an hour or so ago, at a dark movement that I saw in the corner of that other darkened room, and when I looked back,
I sat in the motel room and watched old Willie wiggle his ears. It’s how the magic worked. When Willie told me he was a necromancer I got confused and thought he meant necrophile. It probably says more about me than I’d care for anyone
Mirror, mirror, on the… Fuck. No. That’s a terrible way to start. I’m staring into the mirror. A dark hotel room in Venice. Striped wallpaper. Polished glass. Sounds of water outside. There’s someone behind me, lying on the bed, just out of frame. Only her
Photo by Douglas Noble Tweet