This isn't right. I shouldn't have fled up here, among the scaffolding and girders. Only birds can stay perched up in these heights, gazing recreationally at the world so foreign to their own. They don't want me here, I don't belong.

I make no excuses for myself, but sometimes you just have to go. Something bursts in your head, that little reserve energy you were saving for an extra day suddenly gets injected full-force into your veins, and you take off. Sometimes it takes you to a cafe somewhere downtown. And sometimes it storms you up onto the hull of a withering skyscraper, before you can even examine your options.

I thought I'd feel like a cat stuck in a tree, but it's pleasant up here. The wind is chilly, but not as cold as one would expect at a height of two kilometers. The vast 72-story space immediately behind me serves as a sort of wind tunnel, but it's not so bad now. Hardly enough to even ruffle feathers.

Strange thoughts fill my head, some concerned with jumping. Not that I'd ever actually jump; it's more the perverse thought of doing it, the knowledge that you can move a few centimeters and find yourself halfway between the earth and sky. Heh. Hey, next time I come up here, I should bring a little flag — maybe one of those old French flags, for irony's sake? It's not like anyone's used this spire in ages.

At some point, I would have to come back down. Not quite sure how I'm going to do that yet. I mean, I'm not even sure how I got up here in the first place. But I guess there's no rush — it's really quite nice up here.