How do you measure the weight of a sunset?

His steel pear key-chain firmly in his left hand, George reminded himself what it meant to fly. Clouds rushing through his silver hair, eyebrows frantically running up his forehead, afraid of heights.

A villainous belt of laughter screamed behind him, as he fell further and further away from his tormentor.

“Can they even hear me at the docks? Can they even care?”

George stuffed the trinket between his teeth and bit down, freeing his hands to hustle one last hit from an old jaunty jabber. The dark grey viscosity, while diluted, still held the luster of its youthful fantasy.

“Come here, Rotten Roger. It looks like we’re not done yet after all,” he spat through gritted teeth.

His radial artery flared, seeming to writhe in anticipation. After years of sobriety, it could have a lick of that precious ooze. As the pain coursed through his frame one last time, edging the nick closer by the meter, an angel flew abreast.

It smiled with a warmth forgotten, lost to age and temptation. Time stood still. Where once was a husk of a train conductor, but a boy stranded in the sky.

“George. George… It’s time to come home.”

“Mags.”

The key-chain passed from his relaxed jaw and flew upwards in its strange release. The tears which once wicked his eyebrows had dried to a saline shadow.

Clouds rumble again, to a silent drum contesting millions of lost souls. As he passed into the craving void, he left behind one last smirk of a scowl.

“Maybe I’m still me.”