No wings. No miracles.

I am trapped.

There are many like me, here in this place. They walk and digest and fornicate and excrete like any other form of life in these dirty streets. They have horrible acne, some of them. Tiny breasts. Stretch-marks on their flabby guts.

Clad in dirty-brown and grays, hats and glasses, stuble and wrinkles and horrible fashion-tastes, matching yellow with screaming pinks and silly hats and ugly, ugly little things.

Anguish. Pain. Loneliness.

We are not above these things. Not raised or erected or suspended. We are not above anything. If we were, we would not have come here, driftet here across gleaming distances too great to imagine, too small to matter.
We are stardust. We are silvery. We are specks of dust, mere heart-beats and slow beats and chords.

And I am trapped.

We are bound to logic. To rules. to predetermined numbers and figures and schmes and graphs. We are not above these things. We cannot defy logics and the mathematic cirquits that run through everything like metal-
wires and ivy.

No miracles.
No wings.

Not even feathers.

Some of us forget. Not entierly, of course. But slowly. Slowly. Some of us yearn silently and mutely, but never raise voices. The voices tuned, ages ago, to fine instruments of strings and resonance; now used for orgasmic cries and furious bellows and tiny, tiny hick-ups and alcoholic mutterings.

No miracles.

No wings.

And I am trapped.