she looks like a witch. accompanied by two friends, hand-maidens perhaps, spilling from the open elevator with a flick of her golden hair. the hotel builds itself on top of a short, small doorway, joined and leading down sharp tiers of stairs to a depressed lane. featureless brick, glass and posters along the lane have similar doors hammered into them, tiny mouths to swallow, and sky reaching bellies to comfort. twisting overhead skeletal trees have been formed along metal guidelines, though their leaves never fall down. i watch her, her left companion rough and sultry, thick brown hair pushed back from black eyes, moving her wrist to hold hands. to the other side lies an unappealing, yet bubbly mess, blonde hair curly near button and round features. the witch wears glasses instead of a crown, wrinkling her nose until they shrug down from her hair to rest on crafted perfection. an ibis is in front of her, so strange in a place far from water. it stops picking at the rubbish scattered over the stairs’ home and looks at the girl walking past. perhaps it has been bewitched as have i. i follow her onwards. her teeth are imperfect, slightly rough and slightly pointed, the better for tasting innocence. her fabric drapes itself down on either side, hugging her arms almost to the fingers, formed as if to turn to wings when she wishes. she notices me and smiles, and i can see the nothingness in that display, expectation instead of exultation. i smile back.