Dave’s glasses are ripped right off his head, by the wind no fucking less, just as it pulls the air out of your mouth so when you’ve been chasing sheep for two minutes you just can’t catch your breath. You’ve been chasing sheep because five seconds ago you leapt into this bowl in the earth, where your friends were sat, Dave included, and machined gunned them with a Thompson gun made from air, then you saw the sheep and they thought you were just a thing, an alive thing, that wasn’t called Roland, and they had no idea you knew about pens, and the cinema, and you have no idea about them, except that they’re alive things and so you ran at them, being a shape, and they ran away.
Then, unable to catch your breath at the top of this cliff, you feel what it’s probably like to fly, because these winds are something else.
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