To fly, or not to fly

1:20pm, the sun shines apathetically to the vicissitudes of fate. A chair, an empty mess of a desk. In search of a rendezvous he throws himself to the wind, pretending he could fly, he feels carried away by the brief gale that massaged his limbs in a vain attempt to conquer gravity. So , while flying he decides to visit places that he always dreamed of, maybe the mystical pyramids of Egypt, or those twin towers that once stood proud of their flippancy. He flies. Flies with the breeze. Flies with the clouds. Flies with the sun that hasn't stopped its legacy of radiance. Flies with the sublime attitude of birds by his side. Flies artificially. Flies artlessly. Flies with other fliers: other of his own that apparently grew wings and flew with him, they were always flying and now, will fly forever. He doesn't wanna fly anymore.