I want to go with it.
He rose.
He saw it first not as a bird, but as a rift in the sky. A tear in the seamless blue, growing wider, darker, taking shape. It rose from the chasm’s invisible depths, wings wider than a man is tall, black as volcanic glass tipped with fingers of white. soaring condor
Mateo slept that night with the window open, the cold mountain air flowing over his face. And in his dreams, he did not have wings. He did not need them. He simply stepped off a cliff—and found the air was solid, and warm, and waiting. I want to go with it
Only the wind. Only the waiting. Only the eternal, patient hunger for the rising sun. patient hunger for the rising sun.