Air

We know there is something there, but its shape is something we tend to ignore until we can feel it. Our hands are pushed back when they hang out windows, our feathers don’t fall as fast as bricks and our engines burn as we imagine breath is oxygen. Air is a wall, so we make chisels. Our screens and bullets, blades and dams, spoilers and grilles are wings; chewing up what we once thought the son of Erebus and Nyx. We suck up Aether and breathe out fiery Cinderellas, forever midnight.