She is always standing on a ledge, even if she can’t always see
it, a perpetual vertigo she knows one wrong step will cause her to plunge – a metaphor
rooftop she can’t seem to be able to climb down from, as if chained to it, with
only one avenue of escape, down, down into the abys – all those late night
photos she takes with her cell phone, her face prominent, the back drop of the
street below, her life as tied to this as any Gods on the top where birds peck
or that poor soul rolling the stone up one side to have it roll down the other
for her to start all over again. She clings to her ledge like old films of
peril with Pauline, filmed not far from where she’s perched, she clings to the
ledge, one false move might bring her doom, and yet she says: “Don’t try to
save me.”
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