you must leave.
It was near dark. I found a shop with its windows fullof watches. A girl sat by herself, leaning an arm on the glass top of the counter. Below her were watches. Behind her were watches. She was staring at the front of her wrist where the moving hand on the face of her watch leapt and stopped, leapt and stopped, leapt and stopped.
I passed through her. I couldn’t resist it. I felt nothing. I hope it was the right shop. I hope she was the right girl. She shivered at the shoulders and shook me off.
I put where my mouth had been to the side of her head. I said:
I have a message for you. Listen.
She flicked her head to sort her hair. She scratched at the back of her neck. She put her hand down on the counter again and watched her watch, the seconds, doing time.
Woooo-
hoooooo? Anything this time? No, nothing. I try again, and again. Nothing. Just sleep, coming. Time, nearly up.
It is my last night here. I circle the hotel and conjure stones, dust, soil. Some rooms are small, some are larger. The size dictates the cost.
I coast down corridors, invisible as air-conditioning. I waft about the restaurant from table to table, plate to nouvelle plate. I seep through the kitchen door; out the back five dustbins are stacked against a wall, each full of uneaten things.
I hang in reception like muzak. You will recognize me; I am a far-too-familiar tune. I slide up the shining banisters,up and up to the top floor, and through the door of one of the rooms and across the carpet and through the top window, and pirouette all the way down the front of the building (to the paving tiled with the name of the hotel, washed down every morning at half past six regardless of the weather or the dark or the light by the tired lady with the bucket and the mop, I shall not see her tomorrow, I shall miss). Woooo-
hoooooo I have a message for you, I tell the black sky above the hotel, and the windows lit at half past four down its sides and back and front, and its doors that go round breathing the people out and in.
Here’s a woman being swallowed by the doors. She is well-dressed. On her back she carries nothing. Her life could be about to change. Here’s another one inside, wearing the uniform of the hotel and working behind its desk. She is ill and she doesn’t know it yet. Life, about change. Here’s a girl, next to me, dressed in blankets, sitting along from the hotel doors right here, on the pavement. Her life, change.
Here’s the story.
Remember you must live.
Remember you most love.
Remainder you mist leaf.
(I will miss mist. I will miss leaf. I will miss the, the. What’s the word? Lost, I’ve, the word. The word for. You know. I don’t mean a house. I don’t mean a room. I mean the way of the . Dead to the . Out of this . Word.
I am hanging falling breaking between this word and the next.
Time me, would you?
You. Yes, you. It’s you I’m talking to.)
Else is outside. Small change is all she’s made, mostly coppers, fives, tens. The occasional coin is still shining like straight out of a Marks and Spencer till, but most of them are dulled from all the handling and the cold. Nobody ever misses it, do they, a penny, that’s fallen out of the hand or the pocket on to the street? There’s one there, just to the side of Else’s foot. Who needs one pence? Fucking nobody who is anybody. That’s quite funny, the idea of fucking a nobody, just a space there where a body might be, and yourself flailing backwards and forwards against the thin air.
If she leans forward she’ll be able to reach that one pence piece without having to get up.
She leans forward. It hurts to lean.
She stops trying. She’ll pick it up when she moves on. She is
(Spr sm chn?)
sitting near a grating through which some warmth rises. This is a good place here outside the hotel, and it’s hers, if she tucks into the wall alcove near the main door, good and decorous enough, far enough along from it
It was near dark. I found a shop with its windows fullof watches. A girl sat by herself, leaning an arm on the glass top of the counter. Below her were watches. Behind her were watches. She was staring at the front of her wrist where the moving hand on the face of her watch leapt and stopped, leapt and stopped, leapt and stopped.
I passed through her. I couldn’t resist it. I felt nothing. I hope it was the right shop. I hope she was the right girl. She shivered at the shoulders and shook me off.
I put where my mouth had been to the side of her head. I said:
I have a message for you. Listen.
She flicked her head to sort her hair. She scratched at the back of her neck. She put her hand down on the counter again and watched her watch, the seconds, doing time.
Woooo-
hoooooo? Anything this time? No, nothing. I try again, and again. Nothing. Just sleep, coming. Time, nearly up.
It is my last night here. I circle the hotel and conjure stones, dust, soil. Some rooms are small, some are larger. The size dictates the cost.
I coast down corridors, invisible as air-conditioning. I waft about the restaurant from table to table, plate to nouvelle plate. I seep through the kitchen door; out the back five dustbins are stacked against a wall, each full of uneaten things.
I hang in reception like muzak. You will recognize me; I am a far-too-familiar tune. I slide up the shining banisters,up and up to the top floor, and through the door of one of the rooms and across the carpet and through the top window, and pirouette all the way down the front of the building (to the paving tiled with the name of the hotel, washed down every morning at half past six regardless of the weather or the dark or the light by the tired lady with the bucket and the mop, I shall not see her tomorrow, I shall miss). Woooo-
hoooooo I have a message for you, I tell the black sky above the hotel, and the windows lit at half past four down its sides and back and front, and its doors that go round breathing the people out and in.
Here’s a woman being swallowed by the doors. She is well-dressed. On her back she carries nothing. Her life could be about to change. Here’s another one inside, wearing the uniform of the hotel and working behind its desk. She is ill and she doesn’t know it yet. Life, about change. Here’s a girl, next to me, dressed in blankets, sitting along from the hotel doors right here, on the pavement. Her life, change.
Here’s the story.
Remember you must live.
Remember you most love.
Remainder you mist leaf.
(I will miss mist. I will miss leaf. I will miss the, the. What’s the word? Lost, I’ve, the word. The word for. You know. I don’t mean a house. I don’t mean a room. I mean the way of the . Dead to the . Out of this . Word.
I am hanging falling breaking between this word and the next.
Time me, would you?
You. Yes, you. It’s you I’m talking to.)
Else is outside. Small change is all she’s made, mostly coppers, fives, tens. The occasional coin is still shining like straight out of a Marks and Spencer till, but most of them are dulled from all the handling and the cold. Nobody ever misses it, do they, a penny, that’s fallen out of the hand or the pocket on to the street? There’s one there, just to the side of Else’s foot. Who needs one pence? Fucking nobody who is anybody. That’s quite funny, the idea of fucking a nobody, just a space there where a body might be, and yourself flailing backwards and forwards against the thin air.
If she leans forward she’ll be able to reach that one pence piece without having to get up.
She leans forward. It hurts to lean.
She stops trying. She’ll pick it up when she moves on. She is
(Spr sm chn?)
sitting near a grating through which some warmth rises. This is a good place here outside the hotel, and it’s hers, if she tucks into the wall alcove near the main door, good and decorous enough, far enough along from it
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