I stand on the edge of the building, the wind combing between my fingers in a typically exhilarating fashion. I feel the disintegrating grit of the concrete nestle between my toes and inhale the terrifying vastness of the horizon, dispassionately. The sky’s velvet orange cradles the inconsiderate beige of the city, the skyline peppered with countless concrete constructions, towering above my insignificant frame, the insignificant building beneath me.
The noise at the back of my head pulls my skull backwards and I survey the clouds for a moment. I muse upon the instance between life and death, the frame in which decay begins. There is pain within the elongation of decay, and then within the vivacious severing of the limb; the sickening disorder of a life too short squeezing an infinity of misery.
There were plans for the end of winter, lights and decorations. The red and yellows cast shadows on the walls and served only to highlight the cosmic emptiness between presence and disinterest, that epoch between life and death, atypically exhilarating.
I close my eyes and feel the cool air comb between my toes.