I stand, facing the wall I stand with my hands in the air. Red paint splattered across my backside silhouetting my form on the wall.

Its arms are down.

The wall stretches very high, so high I can't see the end of it. I look left, then right and note the end of the wall about 4 meters away from me on either side. But I look up, and I start to climb.

Its arms are down.

The white paint that covers the brick is a thick kind of paint. It covers the edges of the bricks and making them smoother and shiny. The paint drips of my back and the drops hit the ground under me. I have ascended 2 meters from the base.

Its arms are down.
Its gaze moves up.

My body is more muscular than it really is. My arms are thicker, they are as thick as arms of other men, so are my legs and chest. I have no hair and I have a tattoo on my lower back. A tramp stamp. My surroundings are gray and there is no wind.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.

I keep on climbing, my fingers worming themselves into the creases of the wall. My toes try to do the same but can not. They support me while my fingers do the real work. My thoughts wander to birds: amazing, huge cranes with billowing feathers of white, blue and yellow. My nails are breaking and ripping. The red drops below me are not only paint. I keep climbing, focusing on the (never) end.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms open towards the sky.

Around me the horizon is white, in between there is gray and above me there is a black dot where the wall (never) ends. 200 meters above my comrade. The paint has dried on my back, crusted and cracked it flakes and drifts down. Dust. My face is turning white and my eyes are sinking and my fingers find their way still into the folds. On either side the wall stops, below me it starts but above me it goes on. My lips part for air.

Its arms are moving upwards.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bending.
Its embrace is open.

My feet slip and so do my fingers. I fall away from up. My eyes now firmly focused on the start. Now there is wind. Images of cranes come back to me.

Its arms are ready.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are open.
Its knees are bent.
Its embrace is open.

A sky of stars is rushing towards me. Red stars in a vast white space. Billowing feathers come to my mind, I look down and I see the (never) end still the same. And I close my eyes.

Its arms are down.
Its eyes are on me.
Its palms are closed.
The knees are straightening.
Its embrace is empty.