A rebellious leaf tries his best to remain on the branch. He trembles from pain and air. He’s not a material but a product of life slowly gnawing small bits of the sky. He’s only a pawn in a project intended to conquer the air above. Yet he started to think on his own. His cells clutch the gap in his navel cord. He was born to another brief circle, which will end in a final defeat. He’s acquired a consciousness, and he knows that his birth leads to death. He’s a bit like a horrified man who clutches a fateful cliff. The leaf tries desperately to preserve his connection. The tyranny of the wind ignores his audacious pain. In the process, the leaf has become not an “it” but a “he” while his brothers were born hardly conscious, surrendered, and joined the illusion of freedom. It’s better to hang on a branch but be free than to travel enslaved by the arrogant wind. The air is in need of puppets who trade their freedom for new impressions. The leaf is unable to fly, but he’ll fly as a soldier of chance, as a hostage of whim. Passing seagulls observe him with obvious scorn.