Conditional Reality

We found feathers littering the front yard. We made wings from them, put them on, climbed onto the roof, assumed a crouching position, then remained frozen for some time while we mulled over our next step. The ground was quite a distance down. The sun set, then rose, then set again. We did not move. Days went by. The feathers began to rot away. After several months we were back to our featherless selves, stepped off the roof, and hovered there for longer than seemed possible. The sky was an impossible blue, and blades of grass grew to immense proportions.