The world was a drum of dark water where we sometimes caught our wings
like moths and fluttered until we freed ourselves and dried our wings
and set off for other lights more real than this reflection. Other
times, of course, we stuck there, adhered to mystery and illusion,
unable to move. Sometimes we died there, wings crucified by reflected
light.
Michael Joyce
Story available at: http://www.eastgate.com/TwelveBlue/
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