(no subject)
There exists a crude instrument with chains and a ball designed to keep your wings in arbitrary positions ill-suited to the species of flight which induce movement. In the throes of this machine your limbs describe elliptical orbits and the remaining limbs call broken triangle sounds of the motor's ragged heartbeat. You will remain unable to but wobble and bend and the patterns of your flights will not resemble constellations, rather grouse and pheasant. One seems to understand the instrument as typically wielded by men in suits which make our eyes squint. We have often sought these men to learn the secrets of what lets the scales settle touching no earth, but in time we realize the answers to our questions lie not with men with instruments, but in the highest levels of towers with no doors, their single high windows accessible only to those whose feathers are not yet heavy with oil and the rust.