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Arriving in a new place, I do my best to find a rooftop, overcoming my dislocation by overseeing the terrain. Wondering what adventures await me here, what lives are being lived under me, who else is looking at the same sky, what will shape me here, and who will I be by the time I leave. I've sought out rooftops with strangers to share a sunset, with friends to hold a secret, with family to say goodbye, with a touch of magic on sharp shingles at late night — but most often, just me and the moon. I always end up feeling a sort of sad, a sadness that feels like the most me of mes, the foundation at the core of all my layers. There's a power to it too, like a general surveying a battle to come. The world is yours, but takes lifetimes to know; people with you sharing an incredible moment, but still are light years away. Visits of vertigo mark the moments that matter most. And heading back to the ground always feels like waking up from a dream that should be the one with the tallies of reality.