The horizon is gone.
Blurred into the grey.
A crosswind with no edge.
I am drifting.

I scan the clouds for allies,
There is only thin air.

I thought the height was enough.
Clean. Cold. Perfect.
But a sky, alone,
Is just a vacuum.

I fold the wing.
and wait for gravity's pull.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Sarapin, in the year 1000 AF.