“Huis-clos,” whispered the mustachioed elevator operator,
as we watched the Thirteenth Floor, which apparently did not exist,
rush past us, light flickering through the crashing, shuddering
filigreed gate, all that kept us from the seemingly endless shaft.
We teetered at the precipice, caught between
Being and Nothingness, the Devil and the Good Lord,
“L’enfer, c’est les autres.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been stuck in this elevator,
trying to get to the top of the tower. Up and down we go,
but it’s never the right floor.
Meet me at 17 Rue Beautreillis,
take a bath and stay a while. They serve the very best wine here,
practically Falernian. Refreshing stuff for those who walk the ashy
Roads to Freedom.
