Watching from rooftops.

It was a rusty morning: grass dew-laced, air thick. We sat cross-legged in a transfixed state of a blurry sunrise, of gaps in our memories, overtaken by nostalgia of days unspent, of places inexistent. Cigarettes stubbed out on the grass, grey ash scattered under my bruised-knees. The surrounding homes pulsated to the heartbeat of the neighbourhood, street-lamps switched off on cue and dogs stretched out on lawns, spines curving dangerously low.

I really should've been in bed by then, but alcohol never induced me to sleep. Instead, I chain-smoked my way into daylight, chatting idly with the others. We all had our own quirks, and mine was reacting to the unspoken thoughts in my head; a laugh, a shudder, a sigh, all mysterious to those around me. Households were awaking and weariness was creeping into our bones, a sign for bed, but the risk of losing all fatigue as I hit the mattress, of tossing and turning to the soundtrack of my depressed thoughts scared me back into lucidity.
Lighting another cigarette, I soldiered on.