The world was falling. He sat on the wire and watched. Explosions in the distance shook the orange world. The ghosts of his friends flew across the skies for a while in his memory, but soon faded. The morning sunlight strode through the ranks of dead men, the victor. The fallen were not mourned, though there were still those left to mourn them. All the others were fighting for that one distinguishing factor that set them above the others: they had survived the night.

But soon they too, were still.

The world had once been beautiful. Every day, he had sat on that wire and watched. He had watched the grouchy old people waddle down the driveway in pastel robes to retrieve the morning paper. And it was oddly beautiful. He had watched the metal monsters shaking and quaking as they all sat stopped in rows on the long black stretch of road, emitting angry honks like geese. And it was strangely beautiful. He had watched the white and yellow leaves of paper tumble down a windy street, and forsaken plastic bags catch the breeze like sails and fly away. And even that was beautiful.

Movement was beauty. But nothing was moving now. And it was ugly. He could not stand ugly. So he would take beauty upon himself. He would bear the weight of it for the whole world, and maybe, somehow, he would force breath back into the world with this beauty.

With one small burst, he pushed off the wire and soared, a single dot of shadow streaking, hovering, dipping, rising across the red and orange heavens. And he was Beauty.

And the world sighed.