I press my left hand to the pane as well. The glass is cool against my palm. I roll my head to the right and to the left, feeling the hardness and the change of angles against cheekbone and brow. Then I rock down to my nose and my chin. I let my lips touch the window, too. Ammonia and something metallic slip into my mouth and onto my tongue. I move away then, sit back on the anonymous bed in the anonymous room somewhere above the 21st floor. The imprint of my face and hand floats greasy and pale in the blue sky. I was here.
I open the window, shoving myself aside, and join the rushing blue.
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