He stood in his appartment room. The room was perhaps 8 meters by 10. The bed was against the long wall and there was a small table doubling as a desk directly infont of it against the opposing wall, a chair intervening. On the table sat his laptop, a couple of books, his wristwatch, some scraps of paper, and an empty orange juice carton, that kind of orange juice that was thick with bits of orange pulp.

He had tidied hastily, and had no idea how long he had been stood by the chair. He was looking down at nothing in particular, the angle he was looking at reminded him of the point of view of dead people in first person computer games, it was the opposite of that angle.

Then the idea came. He felt light, so perhaps it was natural for the idea to come, as he knew that many people had reached the same idea before him. But somehow today the idea felt tangible, not tangible like a brick, but tangible like dough, a freely floating, particularly light and fluffy dough. He supposed it would make a good donut.

But there he was, the idea forming, the truth making itself known. All he had to do was lean forward a little. Lean forward just a little too much so that it felt like falling, dizzy, he had felt that falling feeling before. Not real falling, it was too subtle for that, but just knowing that there was nothing there to catch you if you fell.

So this is the first step in unaided human flight. To have started falling slowly. But at this point his feet were still on the ground. He suspected that sudden movement would bring him to his senses and he would surely fall, like Wile E. Coyote in the road runner cartoons. The movement had to be fluid. Natural.

Easily, he slid his feet backwards such that he could feel his center of gravity move up to his chest. Normally this would send him in to a panic, like that feeling you get before drifting to sleep and you bring yourself back to alertness by kicking violently to break your fall. That urge had been supressed.

And there it was. Flight. Somehow he was higher up than where he was when he started. Higher than head level, maybe a couple of feet higher. But still feeling like he was essentially falling maybe there was some kind of wind pushing him up, or more likely a kind of natural buoyancy. But it could be controlled, not very well, the way sky divers must control their direction and orientation. Using the forces surrounding them, not applying external force.

He looked down and altered his position, raised his feet. This caused a gentle impulse that propelled him forwards over his bed, and across to his sofa. He turned around, the technique he used for doing this, just beyond concious comprehension but the movement was slow and steady as ever. He felt warm inside and out. He questioned the warmth, the warmth turned to tiredness his eyelids, heavy.

The sun was still shining outisde, but that low evening shine, that cast everything with that yellowish hue, reflected from the sandstone buildings around his appartment. That warming glow wouldn't disturb his sleep, he thought, on the contrary in fact.

He felt the rough shod pile of pillows and duvets on the bed calling him closer, just slowly closer. Until he could only just reach down to touch one. Reaching down as if picking something up from the bottom of a swimming pool. It reminded him of childhood, that desire to know what it felt like to touch a cloud. Except now he was desiring only sleep. In this state he was often reminded of things he wondered about as a child. Great things, small things, curious things. As he sunk slowly down in to the bed, that warmness turned once again to satisfaction. He had found one of the answers that day.