Did her feet ever touch the stairs?
City life. Pure flight. Ethereal.
A high-speed chase–Houdini’s escape, from nobody, from nothing, but the time he never will.
In no language, in no words, she heard a sharp announcement “it’s 3:03.”
“That thing is automatic; it spits you out, like coins along the tracks.”
“But I’m not a coin!” she howled.
Inspired by deafening traffic.
Her inner poet laughed:
“What are any of us doing here? Funneled from place to place, tower to tower–spanked by the hand, that sweeps the marks, between the hours.”