Adrian Borland Spanish Hotel
In your room, stuck in a heat, as if the power of the sun was all being spent in one noon. You woke with your head the wrong end of the bed. you stair at the phone as it rings, but right now two yards is two yards too far for you, and you feel the summer burning little holes in every sense that you've got and you've seen the ceiling turning on a dark ride that won't let you off.
In your room, high above the streets, your patience is stretched snap taut as a drum. Soon don't mean soon, it just slips off her tongue and the waiting makes statues that crack when she comes, and you shake . . . you need her to come, and you feel something burning, it's your dignity, it's seen how far you can fall and you feel the hours turning into centuries full of nothing at all.
In your room, alone on the sheets, skin so pale it glows opaque in the night. Dawn will soon come, the darkness be gone, along with the crutches it takes to feel strong, still your fear will be dragged into the light, and deep down inside you are burning with the hatred of what you've become, and you fear that you're turning into something instead of someone. room 83, it's the one you never leave, it's a little piece of hell, your Spanish hotel.
