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Description
I was flying on the wings of angels and we lay on cotton candy clouds as they whispered sweet things in my ear. Sweet nothings, really, but at the time, they seemed like somethings [important]. They gave me glittering paper and I clutched them like my five-year-old "masterpieces" that my parents hung on the fridge from their "beauty". I still can't handle the truth.

These papers held the angels' magic, but I thought it was my own until I rolled away laughing and discovered that clouds are just made of [water] vapour. Gas can't hold heavy humans [we're so dense...] and one sheet of paper isn't a parachute, especially ten years after my "masterpieces" were taken off the fridge. Falling through forests broke every bone in my body and every branch I grabbed was made of thorns that sullied my glistening paper. Soon I was in a pit staring back at the hole I made and I couldn't even write as the numbers wrapped themselves around my fingers.

It's dark down here, and the skeletons wear invisible chains that have been here longer than my time. You see, there's no Energy down here, and to fight Gravity you must Work, and Work takes Energy, which cannot be created [or destroyed]. I guess [estimate!] I'll be stuck here peeling the numbers off my fingers until my broken bones join the tumultuous magnitude around me.

The rise comes before the fall, and I fell so, so far...
If only clouds were not made of vapour...

Description
I was flying on the wings of angels and we lay on cotton candy clouds as they whispered sweet things in my ear. Sweet nothings, really, but at the time, they seemed like somethings [important]. They gave me glittering paper and I clutched them like my five-year-old "masterpieces" that my parents hung on the fridge from their "beauty". I still can't handle the truth.

These papers held the angels' magic, but I thought it was my own until I rolled away laughing and discovered that clouds are just made of [water] vapour. Gas can't hold heavy humans [we're so dense...] and one sheet of paper isn't a parachute, especially ten years after my "masterpieces" were taken off the fridge. Falling through forests broke every bone in my body and every branch I grabbed was made of thorns that sullied my glistening paper. Soon I was in a pit staring back at the hole I made and I couldn't even write as the numbers wrapped themselves around my fingers.

It's dark down here, and the skeletons wear invisible chains that have been here longer than my time. You see, there's no Energy down here, and to fight Gravity you must Work, and Work takes Energy, which cannot be created [or destroyed]. I guess [estimate!] I'll be stuck here peeling the numbers off my fingers until my broken bones join the tumultuous magnitude around me.

The rise comes before the fall, and I fell so, so far...
If only clouds were not made of vapour...