Broken Wings.
Don't we all have broken wings? Clipped by the people around us, so we can't fly?
First pebbles, then rocks, the the sky itself is thrown at us, tell us we can't fly.
I flew once. I can remember it well. Is that how you felt, Quoth? How you could fly free, see the world from any angle you could, before you too, were brought crashing down?
I would do anything to fly again. To feel free. To not be bound by this cruel world.
I hope I can make others fly. Even for a moment. For an hour. Let them see the world high up from the sky of possibilities, just as She intended.
I think my wings are broken Quoth. When yours heal, I shall still be on the ground, frightless and afraid.
I'm crying again. That can't be right.
I'm always crying.