Limber arms hang loose, like that of the arms of a dying tree, covered in the wounds and scars of all before. Another night entrusted to the concrete miracle that flows from one end of the world to the next. Hollow eyes follow, capturing each moment, each step, as if it is vital to intake. The search is never over. Feigning for that comfort, the cure to every animosity, tragedy and infliction. Still weak, the legs drag, trudging through the trash that awaits its own predestination. Its soul eager, as everything else, to find its resting place. The edge can be seen from miles. Strange lights illuminating the path as if it’s an answer. Succumbed by the numbness, feet sill move constantly. The background changing, but the path remains; leading, still, to the edge, which looks closer now. Those eyes, those hollow eyes, keep to follow. The lips moving suddenly too. With every dead stride towards the edge, mouths move faster. The sound is obnoxious. Loud and gibberished, purposefully so. Piercing more than previously noticed, lights pour down from each direction, yet somehow illuminating only the path. The ledge is there. Jumped.