Flying machines.

Dreamed of old friends and old loves last night. And a flying machine made of paper, wood, and brightly colored yarn. It was complicated to manage, but once I got the hang of it, I was flying up into the clouds. Sitting on an invisible seat pumping the wood and paper wings, and steering with the pieces of yarn. It felt freeing. I found myself then, in a wild old-timey town with dressed up tigers and giant barn doors. I was afraid of the tigers, so I was going to escape in my machine with my friend at my side, until the angry circus man with the handle-bar mustache cut my steering yarn strings. Once those were cut, the wings came apart and the whole thing was useless. Running away with my pieces of flying machine, I landed in a field where the circus man couldn't see me. I tried to fix the machine, but there were so many strings of yarn in so many different colors. I couldn't figure out how to tie them back together and every time I tried, they would break again. The longer I worked, the more the machine fell apart. It was over.