The sky was too much for him, too high, too bright, too clear, too blue. He was drawn to the irresistible marbled pattern of cloud and its absence, and it filled him with emptiness, a vertigo of all the senses. But he was still too heavy to fly. And so he came to the sky on the surface of the lake on a perfectly still morning. At the water’s edge, he pulled off his shirt, his shoes and socks, his pants, stepped out of his underwear and walked on tender feet down the cobbled stones into the lake. The cold water parted for his steps and reformed seamlessly behind his ankles, calves, knees, thighs. His breath caught in one sharp and sudden insufflation, an audible gasp, as the cold grabbed his balls and puckered them tight. He dove sure and swift though the sky into the dark and cold of it all, exhaling slowly, bubbles and an odd ticking in his ears, and sunk to the muddy bottom, antithesis of sky, cool and soothing, and opened his eyes, looking for a sign, a place to belong to.