Paragliding is the simplest form of flight. Except falling. I had a repetitive dream for several years when I lived in London. I went to a school where people knew how to fly. They'd soar around the woods that lay all around the playground. I couldn't fly. All I saw were their silhouettes against the bright sky. About this time I stopped running in real life. In my nighttime world I would try to run, forcing myself forwards in vain efforts to build up enough ground speed to take off and join my airborne friends, striving for friction along the ground. Nothing ever came of it. My dreams remained earthbound. I became accustomed to the feeling of not making traction against the ground. Of never getting beyond a slow trot. I stopped moving any faster than a walk. For real. Then I found that feeling of running hard and getting nowhere for real under my wing. After building your wall, reverse launch and turn to face takeoff. Step forwards. Step forwards. Again. And again, and run, balancing against the pull of the wing above you, soaring in the same ridge lift that pushes against your face. That moment when you are striving forwards but the wing is lifting, your toes losing contact with the grass, traction and gravity left behind. I dreamt it.