User:Classicdg/sandbox

He looks, from a tower, below. It’s cold, it’s snowing, and red lights are scattered below. Some, onto the singular wall of the tower. Through its windows; in each window, the light is off. Nothing is cast below. The snow is like sparks; it falls into rivers. Of water. Through the streets. The snow is like sparks; it falls into the rivers of water, falls into the streets; lit yellow, now, by the street lamps. The red stays above. He can’t see below; it’s too dark, the fog too strong. No buildings around him are taller; all he can see are below. a line falls below downwards and down	ward through him and his spine Standing still; he breathes. He takes a step backwards, away from the edge. He tries to descend; there are no stairs, no doors. There were before. There had to have been. There had been. There were. The snow falls around him, like stars, line sparks, like a sandstorm of light in the middle of night. And he's like the snow. Falling below. The blue line falls below. From the streets its peak can't be seen. From the tower, it's peak can't be seen. People gather around it. They're trying to understand.