▖▖ Pillars /ˈpɪlɚs/ and piles /paɪlz/; the towers for miles stretch higher than the city sprawl. The sun and sky in memory feels quilted out of cloth, just soft and lacking burn or brightness to its glow. You expect it to feel like foam; you expect it to deform slightly to your touch, but maintain resistance not out of some need to defy, but rather for the sake of durability, the way a kid's toy's built to last. You expect it to seem cooler than the room around it, some illusion lent to palm by texture, nothing more. You expect it to stay still; remembering now how you'd used the nubs of crayons to draw grass and houses, trees where wall-met-floor. You expect it not to hurt, and you expect that you'll be the one touching it. Your hand drifts closer; the skies in all their memory fade grey. Your hand touches down.