“We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when. Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend.”
- David Bowie
On the far side of town, where the thin men stalk the streets, the stranger stood. The sun played in his hair and he could smell it in his skin as he wiped sweat from his upper lip. The tower soared towards the clouds and he felt insignificant and sad.
The stranger looked down at his feet. Dust covered his boots. His hands were cracked. He’d come too far to give up now.
He said: “I can fly.”