the top of the staircase, passing the third floor. the door isn't alarmed. there's a ladder that leads from the first level to a watch tower, a bird's nest. watch for security in the parking lot and Kimball Drive. we said goodbye to others on the ground, we laid back on our backpacks at the highest point. it was cold and we stared at the moon. I was desperately seeking the strangeness and discovery of last spring. I didn't want the excursion to complete itself. I could barely look at the people next to me.

either approach from the ground via tree or climb from the bathroom window. the brick mantle is crumbing, but the roof is stable. the one time we got caught, nat just waved and asked how her morning was going. we'd go out here at night to take star recordings with a laminated white astrolabe. I climbed in (via tree) more than a few times, and I loved it. there are few feelings better than being a kid climbing through your best friend's window. it's a good place to nap in the sun, if you're careful.

we went up here when we weren't sure anyone could love us, then we went up here and felt real, and peace. we promised never to show anyone, but later admitted we brought our crushes. and together we brought our friends. no one ever looks up. that is what you make of it.

I hate this building and only went for weird parties in people's apartments where we'd get way too drunk. and I didn't really like any of them. I didn't like how everyone was pretending to be grownups because just they were living away from their parents. "It's funny, I would've bullied you in high school." hahahaha. a lot of people like that lived here. except for 3g...the mondrian stained-glass of the windows from the parking lot floors me every time. bless led strips and colored scarves.
apparently you can see the manhattan skyline from the roof. I was a couple floors down. I bet on 9/11 students went up here to try and see the towers.

my friend lived in the penthouse apartment, which I will count as the roof because I am the divinely appointed dictator and monocrat of The All-Time Greatest Index of Yonkers Rooftops. I love them very much. after I was in their apartment for the first time, I wrote down everything I could remember about it. one time I showed up late to a party and found the apartment lit but empty, 4 or 5 people spread out on a persian carpet on the balcony, smoking weed and listening to russian music. later I'd talk there about driving cars cross-country, lucas's hometown, making music. I would hideout and smoke for a break from trip sitting. we threw cigarette butts on the expensive cars parked many stories below. you can see in strange directions.

come up alone. fuck with friends on the grass and make them think you climbed the pine tree thirty feet up. come up alone with the sun, as the baseball diamond develops one hundred asterisms excited by dew. because campo doesn't check the practice rooms and you blew your voice out on other people's songs all night. elicit hope. cardinal red rei jacket. dark haired head on my shoulder. if you're happy enough the only thing that can get cold is your fingertips. huge and terrifying vs wonderful.

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this is the all-time greatest index yonkers rooftops. I have no IDEA how you got here.

you can get my PGP code here, or set messages in bottles adrift in the bronx river. they will come to me.