next room. I finished my eggs and toast and stared down at my plate, at my knife and fork, at the crumbs and hardening stains of yolk. Normal plate, one of about twenty identical plates we’d had forever. Normal cutlery, same old faded red handles. Normal breakfast, same old eggs that come from chickens that come from eggs and so on. Normal day, same old being a bit older than I had been before.
EXCEPT I CAN FLOAT IN THE AIR I CAN FLOAT IN THE AIR I CAN FLOAT IN THE AIR WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE SHIT I CAN FLOAT IN THE AIR.