I wake in a grassy field with gently rolling ground, endless in every direction until it meets a blue sky on the horizon. I look up and see winged people in the air, people I know and love are soaring in the sky like birds, gracefully, purposefully. I leap to join them with my own wings that I suddenly have but my smile fades as I slowly glide back to the ground. The flecks of white in the sky seem to collect around me, a funnel beckoning me upward. I jump again, this time with a determined tilt to my jaw and a sharp angle to my wingtips, but once more awkwardly float down. I see individual faces now, my girlfriend, my closest school friends. They circle at the bottom of the cyclone of white and I reach for their grasping hands, pushing off the ground once more. Their hands reach my shoulders, but we seem like oil and water, their fingers slick against my skin and unable to find purchase. Once more I tumble down, this time the impact hurts. They circle faster, the effort twisting their faces into pain. They aren’t really flying now, but being pulled along in a current so that they dance like tangled marionettes. The questing cyclone of white pulls itself back off into the sky, my friends seemingly having forgotten me despite the protests of one or two. I sit down, and as soon as I relax, the grass around me fades, the life draining out of it in an emerald stream towards the sky. My wings fall off, two formless hunks of melting off-white that no longer belong to me and burn to my touch. I am cold, huddling up with my knees pressed against my face to try and preserve some vestige of warmth, of life. The now brown landscape seems a stark contrast to the pristine sky. The flock of people moves away across the heavens, and the sun goes with them. I sit, cold and alone until the darkness fades away into the ringing of my morning alarm.