If I were standing on the top of a cliff right now, the steel grey sea lashing the rocks below, all white horses and froth, the boom of rollers beating the shore into submission, giant tankers reduced to a speck on the horizon as they head for safe harbour? If I were standing on the top of a cliff right now, the sky perfect in its anger, low clouds hurtling eastwards, breaking occasionally to reveal a scrap of blue or the icy white of cirrus clouds, driving the seagulls sideways as they race inland not entirely of their own volition, the sun filtering bright gold through the evening air, concealed, revealed, but sinking surely from sight? If I were standing on the top of a cliff right now, the wind eddying furiously about me, sometimes pushing, sometimes pulling, clearing the day’s haze from my mind and filling it instead with thoughts of freedom? If I were standing on the top of a cliff right now?
Would I fly?
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