The view is intoxicating, as views high up tend to be. I could look at it for hours. But I don’t have hours; time waits for no man. A modest pang of regret twists low in my gut; if only I had climbed the fire escape stairs earlier in my lease. Cigarette butts litter the roof top, an over-turned plant pot the unseen smoker’s throne.
Church spires and old slate roofs vie for skyline space with apartment blocks and office buildings. It is a scene I didn’t even know I was missing. The morning traffic snakes sluggishly through the city’s veins as people play their part in the great delusion of purpose.
Birds fly overheard and I no longer have to envy their freedom. The plant pot adds to its list of achievements and serves as a step.