I get this dream some nights and I’m flying easy as walking – easier. And there aint nobody but me in the dream, even though I’m flying downtown and along fifth avenue and all around central park. Birds there is in the dream, and I can reach out and touch ‘em, and like puppies or kittens they just press up warm against me.
And everywhere is breathless still and I can swoop and rise and it aint no effort to do that. It’s like I am the wind and I can just blow where I will. I seen birds flying before and I watch ‘em shifting direction and all it takes is a movement of their feathers, wing or tail, and in the dream it is like that for me, like swinging my hips in a dance, and I can fly any which way.
It’s the greatest feeling in the world, or out of this world.
When I wake, I am caught for a moment between there and here, and my legs feel suddenly heavy and my arms heavy, too. Like I been working out and I’ve maybe overdid it. And I just lie there, listening to the day stirring, and thinking ‘bout what it would be like to be really flying.
I tell the guys at work ‘bout my dream and this one guy pipes up that he has the same dream, only it turns out he doesn’t; in his dream he is a actual bird with feathers and wings and shit, and that ain’t like my dream at all. He says it’s maybe a memory cos we is all descended from things past, dinosaurs and apes and shit. But I don’t remember monkeys flying, not ‘cept in that cartoon-coloured film ‘bout the Wizard of Oz.
This other guy says throws in his two-bits and he says dreams has meaning and he’s serious. He says he read ‘bout it in a paper once. He says dreams of flying is really dreams ‘bout sex. And he slaps my back and he grabs for my cock in play.
Why is it somebody’s always gonna spoil things in this life? It was just a dream ‘bout flying and it was easy and I was sharing it to say how fantastic it’d be one day if science could really make it so. Science does that, makes the impossible possible, and I reckon as how once day we will be flying like in my dream. Now if he’d read something ’bout that in his paper, I’d be interested.
But then later, when I am on my break and I have gone up to the roof for a cigarette and just to be by myself, well I get to thinking ‘bout what the guy said, ‘bout dreams of flying being dreams ‘bout sex. I recall then that I’m hard as wood when I wake after ‘em dreams, and antsy, too, and sometimes I jerk off just for the relief. And I imagine it’s Carol from the from office as is jerking me off and she’s in a desperate hurry cos she’s got a hundred and one other things to do and she’s always saying when I try to talk to her at the end of a day, ‘Sorry love, I gotta fly.’
Patricia Ann McNair 
I get this dream some nights and I’m flying easy as walking – easier. And there aint nobody but me in the dream, even though I’m flying downtown and along fifth avenue and all around central park. Birds there is in the dream, and I can reach out and touch ‘em, and like puppies or kittens they just press up warm against me.
And everywhere is breathless still and I can swoop and rise and it aint no effort to do that. It’s like I am the wind and I can just blow where I will. I seen birds flying before and I watch ‘em shifting direction and all it takes is a movement of their feathers, wing or tail, and in the dream it is like that for me, like swinging my hips in a dance, and I can fly any which way.
It’s the greatest feeling in the world, or out of this world.
When I wake, I am caught for a moment between there and here, and my legs feel suddenly heavy and my arms heavy, too. Like I been working out and I’ve maybe overdid it. And I just lie there, listening to the day stirring, and thinking ‘bout what it would be like to be really flying.
I tell the guys at work ‘bout my dream and this one guy pipes up that he has the same dream, only it turns out he doesn’t; in his dream he is a actual bird with feathers and wings and shit, and that ain’t like my dream at all. He says it’s maybe a memory cos we is all descended from things past, dinosaurs and apes and shit. But I don’t remember monkeys flying, not ‘cept in that cartoon-coloured film ‘bout the Wizard of Oz.
This other guy says throws in his two-bits and he says dreams has meaning and he’s serious. He says he read ‘bout it in a paper once. He says dreams of flying is really dreams ‘bout sex. And he slaps my back and he grabs for my cock in play.
Why is it somebody’s always gonna spoil things in this life? It was just a dream ‘bout flying and it was easy and I was sharing it to say how fantastic it’d be one day if science could really make it so. Science does that, makes the impossible possible, and I reckon as how once day we will be flying like in my dream. Now if he’d read something ’bout that in his paper, I’d be interested.
But then later, when I am on my break and I have gone up to the roof for a cigarette and just to be by myself, well I get to thinking ‘bout what the guy said, ‘bout dreams of flying being dreams ‘bout sex. I recall then that I’m hard as wood when I wake after ‘em dreams, and antsy, too, and sometimes I jerk off just for the relief. And I imagine it’s Carol from the from office as is jerking me off and she’s in a desperate hurry cos she’s got a hundred and one other things to do and she’s always saying when I try to talk to her at the end of a day, ‘Sorry love, I gotta fly.’
Go figure.