Staring out of the window at the rain. It's always the same view. The leafless, dry trees in the gardens opposite. The large firs, those ones from the Wood Man level of Megaman II, swaying slightly in the breeze. It's not dark. White cloud blocks the sky - we are overcast. A white sky with clear rain pattering gently onto the rooftops, before trickling down to the ground below. Every time it hits my window, I hear a small drop, and if I listen hard enough, I hear it falling. Up and down, up and down, like the waves of the sea.
As the sea of green dances against the white overcast sky, I look north and wonder what I would find if I left. If I kept walking, what would I find? I'd go through the town. And what then? When I escape London, I go in, and then the train takes me out again. What if I went out? Starting going, and kept going? What would I find? Who would I meet? Where would I end up?
When I was young, it was my greatest wish to be able to fly. In my dreams, in my fantasies, I used to climb out of my bedroom window and fly down to the end of my street. The big, long road that leads northwards towards the town was where my friends and I flew. Four of us, flying in a diamond shape, at increasing speed down the road in the dead of night. And yet not, with the gentle spring rain, and the white sky, I look out over the chimneys of the houses opposite, and it seems even more appealing.
Tonight we fly
Over the houses, the streets and the trees
Over the dogs down below
They'll bark at our shadows
As we float by on the breeze
Same house. Same road. Same neighbourhood. Same trees. And the same dream.