He stands on the cliff, looking down 30,000 km below.
The curve of the earth is visible on the horizon.
He takes out a pair of scissors and begins cutting his long
hair.
Little strands of it escape his grasp in the cold, hard
wind.
He looks at the bunch of hair in his fist.
Been dyed about four times, to look good, to look normal,
acceptable - to conform.
He smiles sadly, opens his fist.
The cold hard wind takes every last wisp with it instantly,
cleanses his hand.
He stands on the cliff, looking down 30,000 km below.
The sun sets majestically in the distance, flashing every
different color in slow motion.
He takes off his shoes with his socks, examines them.
Doc martens. Tough. Strong. Could get you over almost
anything. The sole is slightly cracked, some threads coming
loose, the shoes worn wider to accommodate his feet.
He smiles sadly, opens his fist.
They fall, twisting slowly in the wind, toward the cool blue
earth below.
The cold, hard wind blows the last bits of dried mud off the
soles away, cleanses his hand.
He stands on the cliff, looking down 30,000 km below.
The sky above and around him darkens in a sleepy wave of
violet chasing a sun no longer there.
He pulls off his shirt, examines it.
NIN "now I'm nothing" 1989 is printed in faded letters on
the front.
Cool show, great fucking band, honest lyrics, kick ass
music. Heartens the soul, consoles the heart.
He smiles sadly, opens his fist.
The shirt whips away in all it's tattered glory, quickly
disappearing into the darkening horizon.
The cold, hard wind dries the sweat left from the shirt in
seconds, cleansing his hand.
He stands on the cliff, looking down 30,000 km below.
A satellite passes just overhead, cold moonlight glints off
the edges in the smooth shiny steel.
He takes off his jeans and his wallet falls out of his
pocket. He picks it up, examines it.
Money. Credit card. Some phone number on a kleenex. Pictures
of family. Of old girlfriends. Old passport photos of
himself in his teens.
He smiles sadly, opens his fist.
The wallet falls, spilling all it's contents out like so
much confetti, to be scattered instantaneously in all
directions.
The cold, hard wind picks the last bits of pocket lint away,
cleanses his hand.
He stands on the cliff, looking down 30,000 km below.
A shooting star arcs away at the horizon, visible in the
crystal air until the second it passes beyond.
He pulls off his boxer shorts, examines them.
Aqua blue boxer shorts. The novelty type. With lewd drawings
all over it. And a condom pocket in the back. Plus condom.
Faded come and urine stains on the front. A gift from his
first real girlfriend.
He smiles sadly, opens his fist.
The cold, hard wind rips them away and they billow and spin
down out of sight, cleanses his hand.
He stands on the cliff, looking down 30,000 km below.
He looks down at his now naked body, examines it.
-
He stays this way for an undetermined while.
A single, solitary tear escapes his right eye, and is pulled
away in the constant wind.
His eyes trace his body up and down, looking, exploring,
searching for something.
After a while they give up.
He raises his head forward.
His eyes close.
He stretches his arms out sideways.
He smiles sadly, opens his fist.
The cold hard wind blows his footprints right out of the
dirt, cleansing his hand -
Cleanse the place where he stood on the cliff,
Looking down,
30,000 km below. |