The city looks so small when you’re dangling off the rooftop, staring at the pitch black sonnett and void of the night. The only illumination some stars. As your shoes click together, feeling the blood rushing to your legs, you start to question and reflect. You don’t want to, but it’s habit at this point. To singe yourself deeper, to strip yourself of your dignity. It’s the loveliest form of torture. The type that creeps up your spine, never sinking claws into you, but hitching its breath on your skin. The type that makes your eyes dilate, your hands tremble and fixate. And the worst part is that you let it. You let it swallow you whole, you let it tear you from the seams. You feed it the holy grail and pray it goes away, but it makes you fawn to your feet, like an apostle, like grandeur, like repetition, like something that gnaws at your coldness, but never freezes itself. So you stare into the night, and you have stopped trying to find a linear train of thoughts, because you know it’ll trigger the sound of canyons, a sound you can never really get rid of. It repeats. And repeats. And blows, and blows, and for every single star in this night, is a new reason or a new fixture. Is a new ideology, a new perspective, a laughter, a churn or just comfort. Something to turn to, because you know the end. You can reread the pages, because they are stuck to the paperback, they won’t ever falter or crumble in your fingertips. They’re just stuck in a moment. And so are the stars.
