His hands press against the wall.
The stone feels cold, like the eyes of a woman who doesn’t know him. It’s his own fault, too. Or is it? Isn’t it? One could go in circles.
As he forces himself up the ancient spiral stair, he traces his fingers randomly along the stone blocks and their grooves, feeling the bump as his skin touches stone, then air, then valley, then air, then stone again. It’s like reading Braille. It is a kind of Braille, really, he thinks as he attempts the next set of steps. Three more windows, and then the circular ruins. What a shame no-one knows how to read it anymore…
With one hand he follows the line of the long corkscrew up, plodding a bit; the other hand he keeps to the low of his stomach. Three flights to go and he still can’t believe what he’s done. What he was able to do. And all that he wasn’t. And, he questions to the air, do I even have a mistress at all?
Another smile touches his lips as breath suddenly comes short to his lungs, but it’s just another chocolate in a box of a thousand. In any case, he’s walked all the way here, the one thousand, one hundred and eleven steps are almost ascended; he ought to finish the job. He really ought, before he sleeps. It’s only the One thousandth, one hundredth and second step, after all. Only nine more to go.