Max’s thick hair barely moved against the course wind that blew against his whole body. Being 41 stories above the pavement usually intensifies the sensation of such weather. Jesus Christ, Max thought to himself. That’s all that Max could do at this point, as there was no one else to talk to.
The running monologue inside Max’s head had sped up as he climbed each of the stairs that led him to this point in his life. I guess it all comes down to this, went one harrowing strain of Max’s consciousness.
Max didn’t even care to peer over the ledge of the rooftop he stood on. He hardly moved from the very center of it while contemplating the very last act of movement in his downtrodden existence as a human being. It’s the very last thing I’ll be able to control, he justified.
While the very bright Southern California sun grew dimmer as it set over Malibu, Max only briefly saw the crushing waves slapping their way onto the beach adjacent to the Santa Monica Pier. On the sidewalk, his final effort ironically concluded with resounding success.