You glance to your feet, they are freer than usual: you see that they are a good three inches from the ground. You check to your sides, and above, there’s nothing holding you. There’s no one else around with whom you might compare altitude, to check that the Earth isn’t just sneaking away. You nudge your mind upward a little, the tiles below gain distance. You swallow your surprise and conclude that you must be dreaming, as experience would suggest. What a treat! You rush outside to explore the air. The streets are quiet, most people have gone to the island for the festival.

You fly and fly, and then get a little tired, and lay down. Probably about time I came out of this now, you think to yourself. Three weeks go by in this dream of yours and there is still no sign of Waking Up. You sleep and rise in the delusion, of course, but your invisible wings remain. You start to wonder whether you were wrong, maybe this is real. Or you’ve gone mad. Or you start to panic that you’re locked in, and are vegetative, somewhere, surrounded by crying family, silently hopping from breeze to breeze in a world of your own comatose creation.