Meanwhile

Some days I do nothing but talk myself off ledges; dusty, cracked and narrow with stonework slipping like shale, peeling windowframes at my shoulderblades and the balls of my feet jacked to 90 degrees, madness lying disinterestedly between the paving slabs on the street below. Ledge-logic shears away from the face of stability in gritty, burning scatters of brimstone like fireworks that got mocked a lot at school.

Hostage-negotiator voice. Outside the mental door in a bulletproof vest and the marriage-on-the-rocks eyes. Give her the pizza and tell her that we're working on the helicopter.