Last One flying

We dream we are flying, and when we wake, we hate everything that flies. From our dream, we know what they feel who soar above the earth, but can only remember it; cannot summon that feeling into us when we, covetous, ache to feel it again. For generations we study the birds, and at last work out what we believe is the secret of their magical gift; with that knowledge we build huge screaming bugs with which we take over the sky, commandeer their space, slaughter them by the thousands instead of one by one, as until then we had been constrained to do.

But these mechanistical proxies do not satisfy; they somehow are not the machines we most desire. For us, actual flight — that is, of the meat, such as we envy in the birds — is a cumbersome and humiliating experience, and bears only the slightest resemblance to the flying we do in dreams — for dreams do not require that we give up our hands for wings.

Dreaming is not enough; actual flight of the meat is not enough. We must have both. We must have everything. Everywhere. All the time.

We realize our mistake: in ourWorld, the secret of flight is to be a bird. If we want to fly, we must change ourselves, or change the world.

Or make a new one, and move there.