10.13.17 – Just-stitious
Someone built a street between these keys and here we are, standing atop the towers, looking desperately at the gap separating them. If Hope took a leap, she’d fall at least a few feet short of the next roof top and have a long time to ponder the fault of that decision before rushing to a stop. At least the skyline stays clean; it’s a bit broken by pits and points and appearing like a rough set of teeth gnawing at a reddening sky. That beast is mad below. You can tell by the clicks in his throat each time we cross one of these hollow molars. The canines already seem to have pierced the plane above, cracking through and leaving trailing bouts of ivory pools off their dark and sharp ends. We climbed up here not to take in this view but to step from one block to the next without any trouble building at the cross.
There are architects rattling in their oak homes knowing that this geometry was roughed so. I’d have thought the bridge over those creases would make this a simple dash job, but we were caught up in ‘em. That pause meant all the effort was spooling away; the thought of further labor struck us suddenly and stole off with some of our motivation to continue this tare. We were dragging bones up and about the stairs to reach these markers for even just one cue. I no longer had a read on what was being spelled out, the strings running together in a clutter that might have made more sense if I stepped back. To look at them from this seat was like staring up an alleyway at the dozens of laundry lines, each carrying its own treasures but all appearing as disheveled clutter in the way they covered and slipped among each other.
Maybe we’d find a bit of time to trap just one or two of those linens while ascending. We could steal a bit of color with the use of our vantage point and stage it at the peaks. I’d fly them as flags, lost but marking a precise path from that letter to the next.