The top of the building is blanketed in peach flurries; the sky gives birth to soft pieces of ice. I am seeing life for the first time here and in the bounce of the rubber roof to my shoes sole, heavy with protection from snow. The lights of windows and the bricks, built high up on each other, this city is breathing! And I can see it exhale better, from all the way up here. What does it mean to live so close to the living and the dead, and in complete disarray without the benefit of a well cushioned fall? I thought it would be colder but this doorway shields me from the harshness of our weather. What if I lived there? I light a match just to see the wind knock it out and suddenly I’m conscious of who can see me and who I can see. Bodies are moving, appearing and reappearing into hidden spaces my eyes angle can’t see. They flash in and out of lighted spaces and I think some can see me but just aren’t looking out. I mostly wonder how smell travels from up here. If I lit a spliff and sat comfortably, would the mother down there catch a whiff? And would she say something? It’s still not cold and wind hasn’t even begun to chap my cheeks but it’s getting lonely up here now and I’m ready to go down again. It’s up there though and I can go there anytime to wonder how far smells travel and if details can be seen in chaos. This is snow season, when the sky gets ready to explode with powder and peach flurries fall purposefully, on course, by secured direction next to the homes and the faces and the open mouths and wet tongues of this cities faces.