He liked to climb tall buildings.
Ascending slowly, flight by flight, each step an effort, his
lungs burning, thighs straining against the exertion, forcing himself to stop at
each landing to catch his breath. He liked the struggle, the slow plod upwards towards
the summit. The climb allowed him to forget his small life, how insignificant
he was to everyone around him.
When he got to the top, he would stand there, wheezy and
full of phlegm, gazing out on whatever landscape there was. Streets, fields,
skyscrapers, castle, sea, sky, it didn’t matter. It was the height he craved,
the perspective. At the top, everything made sense.
He wasn’t the man he normally was, translucent with silence
and doubt.
He was Alexander, weeping because there were no more worlds
to conquer.
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