Your feet seemed to sink into the asphalt road. The dust swirled and swept past you. Shimmering in the heat, making shapes that were beyond and between your understanding. Shaking your head, you took a long drag of the sweet-smelling roll between your dried and cracked fingers. Focusing on your feet again, you realise the road had stopped a long time ago, your feet now cushioned by sand that glittered menacingly.
Rest, you needed rest. To put your feet up and away from the land that threatened to gulp you down feet-first, whole.
As the wind rose, you followed the waves of sand. Stumbling, your head too heavy for your neck, your vision dimmed in the brilliant light of the sun.
Then you found it.
It found you.
It came closer to you, she stood in front. A vision, wrapped in iridescence.
As she lit the candle, you forced yourself to move. Tumbling forward and into the open arms of the Hotel.
It welcomed you, you thought. It said its name and so you must give it yours.
Dry tongue lolling out, you groaned out your name, and the Hotel, the Hotel California, it had told you its name was, swallowed it whole.
It was lovely to be freed.
Right, the Hotel had freed you. A name was a heavier burden than you knew, once unloaded, the slow-burning and shining darkness took its place. It was weightless and heady. Like the sweet colitas that your fingers had abandoned for the arms of the Hotel.
For the hotel was lovely, much like her.
Where was she?
Ah, there she is. Just as you thought of her, she was.
Near, she is. Always.
Whispering, the names of her dolls. The pretty little boys who stumble through, into her dollhouse. She took good care of them. She’ll take good care of you.
She was lovely, just as the Hotel was. All hard gloss and Tiffany– shiny. And your eyes were trained on them one second, the next—
The courtyard filled with pretty boys, dancing. Dancing to forget the heat that made them remember. Dancing to remember the warmth. For though the dance made them sweat, the Hotel was cold. Cold as diamonds. Set in a gold band of moving waves.
Thirsty. You needed to wet your throat. You turned to ask for some wine. Your head was getting heavy again from the memory of the heat that the dancing of the crying boys evoked.
But the man denied you of it. Drink in the sights, he says.
For it was a lovely place, Hotel California.
Your eyes dripped with the moisture you were refused. The salt in them stung and the warmth of it reminded you.
You need to leave.
Your feet slid back as you ran to the doors.
Because, why?
It was a lovely place, a lovely face.
Hard, cold, ever there and never more in the desert winds.
Why must you leave? She asked.
You stopped, your feet now dancing.