For me there is always something of pushing. Pushing on air, pushing with my thoughts. I find that the trick to flying is to trick myself; I must believe that there is some firmness in the air just beneath me. But even in dreams I am a skeptic. I cannot of my own will keep the air congealed beneath me, no matter how many of these esoteric codexes I scour. I can manage only a few paces up before I falter. Perhaps the old manuscripts fail for suggesting that I maintain this firmness alone.
