I never dream of flying. I watch the birds fly and I think, “Good for them!” Good for kookaburras and good for owls and good for bin chickens and good for galahs and good for sparrows and good for shitty seagulls and good for blue tits (hah!) and especially good for pigeons.

But I never dream of flying.

Anyway, last night I had this cool flying dream (and you’re probably keen to hear about it). I flew down the backstairs of mum’s house, but in the dream it was my parents’ house. I didn’t fly up into the sky and soar through the clouds or look down on the town—out to where the water is. Instead I flew very low to the ground.

Low and slow.

I flew so low ‘n’ slow that the bushes in the backyard poked me in the eyes and scratched my face and stomach and arms and legs. I knocked over buckets and headbutted tree trunks and tipped over that old blue wheelbarrow that I used to sit in with the hose. After a while I was drenched in blood and I thought, “Good.”

I won’t fly in this life.

But good for the birds! :)