I'm standing on the edge of a lonely, grass covered canyon. Rays of sun drift in through the clouds, and a violin from nowhere seems to play a high, wandering melody. My scapulae rise to the occasion, unraveling into the threads of my being, reaching for the sky. First, they hug my chest from behind. Then they twist away from me, snapping and sticking as they weave.

I jump.

The wind blasts my face, and the river below approaches. Suddenly, a gust yanks me. My limbs kick the air, all six of them, and after a face-crushing climb, I see trees turn to circles. The river becomes a line.

The clouds above me drag their gray cotton through the sky -- fluffy fabric of fog that rips as it blankets the sky. I could reach out and devour a clump.

There are no windows between me and the cool, sizzling air.

I am home.