In my dreams, I fly. I open the window in my dingy 10th-floor apartment and hurl myself out into the night. The cold wind caresses me, the air supporting me as though I'm lying on a mattress. The dark holds no terrors for me. Walls crumble like tissue at my touch; hard-eyed men with guns and knives fold at a single blow of my fist.
In the morning, I cut myself shaving. I am no longer invulnerable. I am only me, middle-aged, balding; the eternal assistant manager at Kinko's.
The brick dust and bullet fragments wash away in the shower.