It was on a Tuesday that Oakland first appeared to be unbound by the natural laws. The sun above hung still, a golden host surveying the anomaly below. Mary discovered it while chatting with Edgar on the ledge of the old Parker Building here, the breeze casually flattening conversations almost, but not quite, forcing them into lines drawn by gravity.
"Can you imagine," she began, voice almost scaling the invisible boundaries, "creating art that floats instead of hangs?"
Edgar smiled, his expression drifting like vapor trails behind a plane. "Maybe the lines would draw themselves, you know, like they'd listen to the earth's wishes instead of fighting its pull."
The pigeons, normally ground bound and rambunctious, pranced midair, oblivious to the watchers beneath. Laughter—a concoction of echoes and silence—drifted over the ledge, as if the space itself had commandeered a voice.
"Do you think we've entered someone else's dream, or is this a new beginning told by gravity?" Edgar pondered, his tone a request for candidness, even beyond the limits of weight and pull.