She was fly in a bottle, she could see the other side, the dirty dark sky, but this glass, the one she kept flying herself against, would never break, bend, or crack for her. And she could see the great golden moon, the moon she would fly to and over if only if only she could make this bottle vibrate and turn over on its side and shatter and somehow she would emerge from the rubble and fly, even with glass sticking in her wings and pinning her down, she would fly higher and higher, and maybe she would fall, or be wounded half way there, but at least she could feel this real thing, this black, and be covered by it and kiss it and this was life this was real life.
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