In Dreams

In my dreams, I fly.  I open the window in my dingy 10^th-floor apartment and hurl myself out into the night.  The cold wind caresses me, the air supporting me as though I'm lying on a mattress.  The dark holds no terrors for me.  Walls crumble like tissue at my touch; hard-eyed men with guns and knives fold at a single blow of my fist.

In the morning, I cut myself shaving.  I am no longer invulnerable.  I am only me, middle-aged, balding; the eternal assistant manager at Kinko's.

The brick dust and bullet fragments wash away in the shower.