SilverMythago

on the edge

The two girls with the sun in a spiderweb bag are standing by the mountains talking with the snake that makes holes in the wind with his rattle.  The girls have large white eyes and tattered shorts.  Their legs are softly salt-crusted.  They can smell water.
I don't know why I'm scared now, or why I can't close my eyes, but there's something inside like a shutter release, and I'll sleep when the world stops, or simply when this mess of broken foggy sky drifts out of the lens.
Taking the final drag on a cigarette, standing on the balcony, flicking it four stories down and watching it erupt in a shower of tiny orange sparks against a rain-soaked and shiny tarmac.  We always aim for the roof opposite, the plain above a block of shops and bars with skylights that look like moon craters, some kind of space unit, there are maybe a hundred of them, spaceless and sallow, some forgotten galaxy.
No-one's ever reached the roof.  It would be the equivalent of the stars and stripes on the moon if they did.  A smoking cigarette end slowly dying, but there.  Reaching that roof shouldn't signify any sort of revolution, but somehow, sometimes, mostly, the simplest things in the world are the most incredible.

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