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! :)