I jumped off of a building once, and landed on the next one. I had to. The building was crumbling from the foundation up because one tiny sliver found its way across the massive concrete block and decided it was hungry. So it expanded and soon enough, the building was shifting, leaning on the right and then switching, crumbling more and leaning on the left.

It was a leaning tower and I had to jump from the sinking building if I wanted to live peacefully. Not all of jumped, though. Some wanted to stay, saying it was their home because they were born there, and some of them even died there. Leaning tower or not, they were going to survive the slow, painful crash down, even if it did mean death from a collapsed wall, or a block hitting them on the head while they doing the dishes.

Pride wasn't my thing, though. Not even stoic pride. I mean, I didn't even consider that crumbling place my home. Not once.

So, I jumped and landed on my feet, like a cat, on the roof of the next building that sat a little lower. The soles of my feet hit the concrete hard, and, crouching down, I peered over the ledge and saw a small boy pick a flower from the foundation. Suddenly I heard concrete crumbling and watched the leaning tower dissipate, cracking in a thousand places. I wept for all their lives. I wept fo


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fancy dancing (joined almost 11 years ago)
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