Flash Fiction: Flying

He was flying again. The cool air whipped his hair in all directions, never obscuring his sight, and below him, under the azure were the infinite fields dotted in shade of green, beige, and brown. He gripped the cool railing, rainbow patterned triangle guiding him to the next location.

The pressure of the wind varied as he banked left, wing going up and up, precise and patient, but never overeager, and he saw the sea in the distance uncut by bleakness, and bathed in white sunlight. He would have laughed.

But then he woke up in his tiny, unfurnished apartment, in the grey-dark purple of urban morning.

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