The balcony, too close to cement for my affectionate flop over, a delectation antithetical to living. My own means to end: to vindicate myself with gravity. Smack. I blink. Never alone, even in suicide. What is breath but a violent expenditure: I heard the froth of each exhale, the foam: salt-stale ocean of Étretat sloshed in my right inner ear. It made it inside after I touched all of me on the cliff. The mug of the cracked cold English Channel, uproarious and dramatic. Let’s swim now. I looked out, far, far departed from myself. I oozed slick on my hands.
