Odd Devil, Rare Witch

I've woken up against a sound. Hello, I say. Hello, is anybody there? Lamplight and faint water from the cracks between our houses. A shuffle, moving. Footsteps, or me along the sofa? Hello, I say. Hello. Is anybody there.

I live in a vacant jungle, too many walls and too much height and room as far as eyes can soar. Dim becomes dark and dark becomes anything. The night brings endless chances and I find a way to sleep somehow. There is dripping, dripping, constant dripping. A shadow flashes on the wall. I am looking through the window. It is a mirror. I am standing outside.

We wave to each other. Am I some rare witch? A prophet with a follower of one? I am always asking, desperate, with nobody asking me. And so I am, stretched out in an unmade coffin, sinking down like the forgotten sun, until there's nothing left but noises.

I say hello. I ask if anybody's there. Footsteps. The odd devil or two. The hollow call of bottles. Sudden laughter comes from right outside my house, on the street, I rush to the window, someone must be there, the light must show me something, the light must show me something, it must, it has to, it has to. But through the glass, night. It is a mirror. And all I see is myself.