There was a noise. Wind. Lots of wind brushing past his ears. But it was black. There was nothing to see. This was because his eyes were closed. As this thought entered his mind a spark of an idea began to emerge. He should try to open them.
This was harder than it first appeared, as there was wind pushing against them. Lots of it. And when he finally pried open his eyes they began to water. Through a haze of water and awakening, he began to realise he was falling. He was in free-fall. And had absolutely no idea how to stop.
He tried to recall how he got into this situation. Like a postman who had been chased by a dog, caught by said dog, half-mauled to death and then had staggered to the local pub to recover, and was now walking home after 10 pints of the local favourite, he sent that thought into his brain to retrieve that all important information. However the "postman" didn't return. Nothing returned. Because there was nothing to return.
He couldn't remember. His mind was a complete blank. Prior to trying to open his eyes he recalled nothing. It was as if he had been born falling through the air, wearing a tartan shirt, jeans and seemingly some Nike training shoes - though at this time due to the velocity, and the general rotation of his body he couldn't verify this last fact.
He considered he must remember something. There must be a name. Some sort of identity. He sent down another similarly assaulted and inebriated "postman". Nothing. He considered giving himself a name for now. Windborn. That's what he would call himself. Windborn.
He seemed rather pleased with himself for a moment. Until a more pressing problem occurred to him. Something, a vague recollection of a recollection of a memory, suggested that falling ultimately ended. And was generally replaced with another occurrence. A landing.
Landing sounded peaceful enough. It sounded good. A slightly faster and less wounded "postman" returned after this thought however and informed him that landing usually required something to be moving a little less fast than superman rushing for the toilet after a particularly bad curry.
He let this mull through his head for a short time. He decided this wasn't good. There seemed to be lots of green, brown and blue stuff moving towards him and whilst it looked pretty, unless it was made of marshmallows, it was probably not good for his health.
What were marshmallows? He allowed himself to consider this for a moment. Visions of pink and chewy entered his head. He decided he liked marshmallows. He wondered if he'd ever see a marshmallow.
Then the impending superman curry express came rushing back into his immediate thoughts again. What would be the fate of Windborn of the Sky? He tried to fly. And only succeeded in moving in the same downwards direction he had been previously.
OK he couldn't fly. Could he slow himself down? He strained his face. Tried to make flapping movements with his arms. And possibly broke wind. None of which aided his cause. In fact the latter seemed to exacerbate the situation.
Time was of the essence. He needed drastic action. There was probably only moments left. So he committed to a thought. He was going to live.
Startled people looking up, watching him zoom towards the floor, were not thinking this.