The Eradication of Flight
They constantly look to the sky, begging for wings, yearning to transcend the dirt and the rot of the earth. I find this upward desperation utterly pathetic. True enlightenment is not found in ascending; it is found in accepting the heavy, inevitable crush of gravity.
I forged these wings not to grant them the sky, but to permanently revoke their airspace. I cast them in heavy iron, then violently snapped the joints. The edges were left razor-sharp, a jagged warning against any sudden movements or illusions of escape.
When clamped around the wrist, this broken wing serves as a statutory no-fly order. It bites into the flesh, pulling the limb downward. The wearer must abandon all fantasies of soaring. Their only permitted destination is the ground, their only posture, absolute surrender.
