I remember once I was struck by lightning in the face, then once more for good measure in the same place. I’ve even walked on the floor of the ocean at a casual pace, being the only light to ever reach that space. Complicated though it may seem, a dream is still a dream until you wake from the scream. Sifting through the layers of conscious emotions like melting ice cream, shaken from the dream. Awake yet? You up now? Alarm chiming in Light through the windows What good are wings, said the angel, if you can’t feel the wind on your face? From somewhere above came this response, you are made of all things in space. Every star sheds its light onto creation, then recycles itself like night to dawn. Blowing out into blindness, then collapsing to devour all that it has spawned. To be born is to die, a living testament to the grave. We escape one tight space only to fit into another one, no matter how we behave.