There's no standard handbook for heroics.
You climb the building and sit on the ledge,
looking out over the land below.
Simmering butterflies line your stomach.
Calm your nerves with nicotine, when they start to fray...
No one wants to clean up this crazy mess.
"Jumping is not an option!" the birds say, the clouds mutter, "put your heart back in your chest."
Sew up your sternum and just sit, for no war was ever won in one day.
Justice seems to move, but move just a little bit, like when the clouds move over the sun,
the day is grey but who notices? Your vision is behind your closed eyelids. You see sun spots.
You stand on the ledge, stoic. Up here, your feet are as planted and firm
as if they were on the earth.
