On my roof, counting stars. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Plane. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Plane. When I smoke, I can feel every limb in my body, which is probably why I do it. Roof under my back, my arms. That's why they make shingles so rough: so you can't slip off them. That's why I don't go on the roof in the rain. Hydroplaning. If necessary, I could be a roofer. Balance. Shingles. Give me a nail gun, and I'm ready to go. Anything is possible. One, two. Three. Four. Five. Plane. Anything is possible. Yes, we're possible. The end.