perfection.

Splotches of black paint -- no, blood -- litter the sidewalk.  A gentle breezes wafts through your jackets, whispering unintelligibly, beckoning your footsteps to imprint upon the fine layer of dust coating everything.  A low, rusty ladder straddles the narrow street, leaving enough room for cats and vermin to pass through.  Time stills in a mosaic of idyllic imperfection.

              I worked my way up the stairs, heedless of the countless creaks and snaps, focused.  The door to the rooftop; my last obstacle.  The air nipped at my exposed neck.  What a dull rooftop.  The first rays of sunlight peeked out over the western horizon.  This would have to be done without contemplation.  The right edge of the rooftop.  It was friendly.  Accepting.  No time.  I jumped.

Splotches of black paint -- no, blood -- litter the sidewalk.  A gentle breezes wafts through your jackets, whispering unintelligibly, beckoning your eyes to cast light on the figure lying prone next to the ladder.  The blood is pooling.