On the precipice I ask myself: if I jump up and down, will the self that has eluded me for the past 29.6 years, flood right in? 

Will it flood from my tiptoes as the dust from my checkerboard slip-ons rolls to the tip of the sky?  Skylines are a welcome reprieve from lacquer-boxed street dwellings and tap-finger light pockets.

But:  

Can I stand on my tiptoes? 

Teetering, the tattered memories of 259,269 hours screen in the background of my landscape, a scripted picture that plays 11 times per hour.

I want to escape the edge... But

What do I know?

With my tiptoes strewn over the fault-line.  

Who am I to ask these questions.

Plumes move further and further and further until the last speck of my line is swallowed by the spelled out skylines that gave me the break I so desperately asked for.

At least it all

Keeps me on my tiptoes.