I'm lost again, rambling sideways and down, always half a step from the edge. It would take a stiff wind or a stiff drink to make me fall. I'd go down and down seeing the latter's rungs flash by me as I fell. Reaching out, my fingertips would tap tap tap taptaptap faster on the latter's rungs as I sped up on my way toward the rocky bottom. But I am not falling. I'm weaving, holding onto my altitude, recklessly, stupidly in love.