Slow
Framed Darkness. A window. Not just any goddamn window—a lens, a scope, a tunnel of “fuck, that’s odd.”
Cityscape. It breathes, it swears, it laughs in grime and gray. And there? That’s no fucking gargoyle. That’s Her. Sitting atop the world like it’s a damn joke. A queen in exile. Urban throne of the dispossessed.
Birds. Tiny specks, black against the sky—observers or omens? Shit, maybe both.
Her. She’s contradiction, a riddle wrapped in skin. Monumental in her stillness, a middle finger to the tempo of the streets.
You. Yeah, you, with your eyes glued to the frame, you’re part of this too. Voyeur? Victim? Hard to tell.
Surreal. She’s not real, can’t be. A trick of the light, or the mind? A giant woman doesn’t just sit on a building. Doesn’t just watch the world without it watching back.
Pause. The city doesn’t pause, but you do. There’s power in the pause. The power to fucking breathe, to blink. To halt the relentless march of the seconds, the minutes, the fucking inexorable march.
Silence. It’s loud, isn’t it? The silence of her, the silence of you watching her. A silent concert for the deaf city.
Crack. The window breaks. No, shatters. Glass like rain, like diamonds, like tears. There’s no fucking window anymore. No frame. Just you and Her and the city that doesn’t know any better.
Fall. She’s standing now. Standing? No, falling. Falling up, defying gravity, defying reality. A reverse raindrop, returning to the clouds from which it came.
Burn. The edges of the scene char, smoke, the photograph is burning. But you’re not done looking. You won’t ever be.
Gone. Where she was, where you were, where the fuck is the line? The window’s gone, the frame’s gone, she’s gone.
Remains. Just the city, the birds, the smoke. And the space where she was. Where you are. Where we all fucking are, or aren’t.
Whispers. “Was she ever there?” The city doesn’t whisper. Your mind does.
End. It doesn’t end. It can’t. Not when she’s out there, falling up, somewhere. And you’re here, still watching, still fucking feeling.