He remembers running on the roof. He remembers trying to escape after having been discovered, rousted was the odd word that sparked in his mind. He'd been living in the building for several months at this point after breaking in one night and finding it empty, unused, unfulfilled, symbol of late-stage capitalism's decline and the city's obsolescence and there to be taken advantage of, him coming and going, a rhythm and purpose now to his days and nights, his thoughts and inner currents. He took this as seriously as any job, squatting, applying the same rigor and discipline as with gainful employment, you showed up every day and put in your time and were committed, though this was a deeper level of commitment unknown to the masses, people didn't know and didn't understand the fortitude required, creating something out of nothing, coaxing full meals out of Ritz crackers and questionable hummus and raisins, for he was like a frontiersmen of yore, an explorer of lands and limits, westward ho to the end of the continent and nothing beyond but blue water and endless sky—the rousting due to two men of NFL stature who entered the building post-dusk and confronted him and told him they worked for the building's owner, a Mr. Kinsella, and Mr. Kinsella wasn't in the business of providing charity here and the police were on their way pal, which is when he ran, fled up the stairs and onto the roof, and now this: release, surprise of glass shattering all around him, the sudden sucking plummet, and how it's not slow motion but fast motion, not like the movies at all—no time to react or contemplate or comprehend what is to come, it's just falling, falling into himself and away. Then the body hits ground. It's not what you think. It never is. And it didn't help to land on his face, but that's what happened, a rearranging of his jaw, twisted in what previously would have seemed like impossible ways, but the human body astonishes, and the chunks of broken glass lodged up and down his arms and legs and back and entire body, tiny pins of specified pain circulating through him, his jaw too, talking was going to be an issue (not that he did much), the drip-trail of blood as he managed to somehow stand and limp away, miraculously making it out of the building and into the street—that is until he could limp no farther, not the first time he'd been publicly marooned like this, collapsed in a raw heap, the linebackers not following him apparently. Was he in shock? How had he made it this far? How many times had he truly loved without regretting it after? And even though it was his fate to walk these streets and hinterlands alone, that didn't mean he didn't mind the occasional companion, someone to share songs and sustenance with. People gathering around him on the sidewalk, citizens of varying repute, another odd word there, repute, and who were they, really, what was the significance of their lives, and there was nothing he could do but lie there and marvel at the unsanded edges of his own life and wait for them to come and find him and start to survey the damage.


.