Fly High!

We're flying high, singing. Everything seems perfect. There's blue sky and sunshine broken only by the occasional fluffy white cloud - you know, the ones that look like you drew when you were five.

And bang! It's all over.

It doesn't matter how well liked you are, how good you are at your work, how clever your ideas. The shadow of the man with the gun is always there.

And bang! Your dreams die.

Would you rather fly high, revelling in the breeze, your feathers shining in the winter sun? Or cower in a dark corner, hiding, scuttling, avoiding the heights, the sunshine, the sheer pleasure of soaring into the sky?

Fly High, my friend. Fly high!

....