I’ve always wondered what it would be like to fly. To soar above the hills, the tumbling clouds and follow the tangerine sun as it escapes this part of the world in favour of another. My world would never turn to the shade of night but remain a constant dawn, where the bleakness and black would not dare to invade. It would be content and constant, glowing and light and hopeful. Because life would never be plagued by the troubles of midday or evening. Every day, every moment of my simple existence would be a new dawn. A new beginning where anything is possible and the past is an arbitrary, unnecessary vacuum of silence - easily forgotten and so never really there at all. Gone. But isn’t this wish our greatest flaw: fearing memories and each new day for what it may not be, rather than what you could make it?