I was flying again.
I hate flying.

I was moving down Canal St, heads bobbing underneath me, I had to keep grabbing at awnings and store signs to keep me from rising too high. I broke all my nails. I don't even have nails, I bite them. There was blood all over my hands, not streaks but in little trails where it dripped, dried and not hurting at all. The trees kept snapping, I kept rising, above the park now, grasping for branches to hold on to. They snapped and fell away, I was way too high, holding shreds of leaves.

I knew I'd never get home, I was too far out of my atmosphere, and the clouds weren't helping, I couldn't see which way to steer and they kept dissipating when I tried to hold on and I lost all the leaves and the world dropped away.