Suspended from a tight rope above an unsuspecting city, the clouds are silk up here but the sky is cutting and the moon is as piercing as the streetlights below, a faded glow of forgotten conversations, words mumbled underneath the iron poles, just shadows left as the night runs on. The show must go on, but there’s always an intermission to slip out backstage doors and whisper to whoever happens to slip the words into faded blue back pockets, “again”. That’s all that needs to escape from kneaded tongues, because when all that’s said is simple there’s more room to spin it around bodies like little invisible bandages, feet on the edge of waiting, one hand on the ladder that leads up to the silver string above sleeping concrete. ‘Again’
You know the feeling before the ground falls out from under your feet and all that’s left is a sparrows eye view of a sinking sky? That’s what it feels like, as sharp air and stinging church bells cut through the sky and something reminiscent of train horns fog the air; as the top of your barefoot is cast into the echo of light we call the moon. Maybe this is all just a breeze to the many, but to the huddled masses smattered across the night sky, teetering on a straining tightrope, it’s a hurricane among church bells and train cars. Our northern star is just an echo from above, but it’s the clearest light, waning on a shrinking sky as everything else expands from the heat below.