rooftops differ. one glances upon a city of white. the other reflects the lights of mountaintops and hilltop castles. a time existed when the extremities would be vastly perceivable. the variations now appear only between the mundanity of boredom and the refreshing crisp blast of life on the skin. buen provecho – salud – to making the life last beyond tomorrow. the difficulty is not so difficult. only complicated. harsh. painful. yet there is. a release of the fingertips against a skin. and the softness of fingernails against the back. and a forever tightwire walk. across an impassible gorge. a religious sacrifice. street cleaners below to clean up the splatter. of a life. too worth living to not live it. against a backdrop of glistening low-lying stars. en que. where the limes draw in the cheeks against the bones. where the sweetness of taste flattens the tongue into submission. before reality is swallowed. and the choice has to be made. to swallow the bittersweet regression. or is it progression. they both feel so similar to the tips of the toes. the cold water. the rough stone. the hot sun. collide in perfection. but the stars fall similarly in line with the starts. the fall slowly. then fast. and then arrives the wish. the guapo wish. tres jolie. even when the fall avalanches into an oblivion of darkness.