I’ve come to the edge of my novel; to the place where all those things I have built for the last two years come apart – no, they are ripped. Ripped apart. More accurate.

Lourdes, the central persona of the tale, stands here at this too-high precipice with me. She is strong and silent as she is often. Her nature. She waits for me. She looks into the distance of the haze-filled valley below us.

There are things coming that I dread to write, Lourdes; things I need not see in this world we inhabit together. She smiles, and she nods. I can see in her eyes a knowing of the things I will write.

But it’s my story, she says through the wind.

Then she reminds me of a verse.

“Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”

At the Edge

“Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”

― Guillaume Apollinaire

“Come to the edge," he said. "We can't, we're afraid!" they responded. "Come to the edge," he said. "We can't, We will fall!" they responded. "Come to the edge," he said. And so they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.”

― Guillaume Apollinaire

“Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
"We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
"Come to the edge," he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”