The vision of you sitting hunched over, arms folded, attempting to minimize the amount of space you occupy in the world.  A goal complicated by the bulky harness around your torso and the forged steel wings extending from your scapula.

The nightmare in which you crash, pieces separating and embedding themselves in the earth.  And where did all this broken glass come from?  You look over your shoulder at the mangled steel left behind.  But amid this wreckage, a perfect quiet.  There is silence after the fall.

The hallucination of your father approaching.  He is 68 years old yet unstooped--the largest wings in the family.  Why does he remove them?  He leans over, picks you up, whispers gently.   Just a contraption.  Just a disguise.

The dream where you slip out of the harness, your damaged mechanical wings falling from your back.  First you float, then accelerate into the air, discovering you never needed them at all.