It mad. Its completely mad. A man can’t fly, right?

Then what am I doing up here?

I feel like a character in a comic book, perched like some ludicrous vigilante on this old stone church, but i picked it for height and not for its aesthetics. Not a big town we have here, in case you hadn’t noticed. Unless you go twenty miles up, to the town, theres nothing taller than this old church in this part of the country.

I’m hot, in spite of the wind. It should be freezing, but I’m cold. I feel like I’m going mad, taking off my jacket and shirt, but its mad just being here. Might as well run with it, right?

If a man can’t fly, why do I want to jump? I’m not suicidal, its not that. I’m as happy as can be expected in a town this small, and I could honestly leave if I wanted to.

So why do I want to jump. I’d have to be mad to jump. But here I am, braced against the edge, the maddening ache and itch on my back seems less intense here.

I won’t jump. I won’t die.

I can be mad, or I can fly.