My mind cuts like a razor-blade.

I wonder if you know what I mean when I talk about the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I climb to the tallest branch of the tree and look outward to that mysterious place where land meets sky, and grasp your limb just a little bit tighter because I cannot think of what to do with myself. Because it gives me a feeling of assurance, no matter how subtle.

For the sirens are chasing us. Over the rooftops with the blasts of music derived from wasted teenage years far and wide; those around us. Over the station-tracks like voices screeching along electrical rows. They are following along with clock-like regularity, just under the wheels, towards the sun. Because for their world is round but ours, a Rubik's cube.