Once, I approached the edge of a lethally-high cliff, just to really see the height. I had to think about how to approach it. I started by testing the ground as I got closer with light, ginger, paranoid steps, making damned sure my weight was shifted back as I prepared to peer over the potentially-mortal horizon before deciding to lie down on my belly and ease myself to the edge instead, all my weight but my head remaining safe, the nagging fear that someone or something could shove me off silenced.

When I got there, my stomach turned as I took it in. The sheer distance, nothing but air separating me and the surface of an Earth against which I would slam with boneshattering force should the ledge of this cliff stop safeguarding me from its gravity, which I now felt every dragging measure. My breath caught, and my heart skipped a beat that seemed, for a second, humbled beyond doubt, absurdly assertive in the face of such impersonal and stoic force.