Standing on the edge, but it's not stable, it's crumbling away inch by inch beneath my feet, below which, in the bottom of the abyssal fault an inky black mass of writhing shadows, cringing figures and choked off whimpers reach out for me with open arms, eager to comfort me in a way little else can.
At my back, far from the edge, an army gilded in gold marches on, shouting and baying and begging for me to return, arms raised and hands outstretched, but I shed all that gold and white a long time ago, and I'm not putting it back on. Black or gold, they're so unappealing.
I walk along the edge, looking down at the black hell below and occasionally glancing back at the golden pricks.
Would it matter either way? Would I care?
I'll probably just fall in to the black.
I couldn't stand being gold if I tried.