A story about... An Animal c. 1999/2000 Dan Biemer, Damon Diehl, Rachel Rosenberg, Jack Welch	RACHEL	DAN	DAMON & JACK
				JACK & DAMON
			DAMON	DAN & JACK
				JACK & DAN
			JACK	DAN & DAMON
				DAMON & DAN

Giraffe don't dream in the same way as other creatures do. It's a long long way from brain to body. For a giraffe, the dream is an exercise in abstraction, separate from physical needs, physical symbols. Separate from physics entirely. 

It would be impossible to explain that dream of course. It involved four shades of puce and the number 86 written in base 19 notation. That's not really the point. 

The point is that, after a good nights sleep, the giraffe really got "it". Struggling up from the depths of sleep, the giraffe held "it" in its mind in the same way that it held a leaf between its prehensile lips. 

It opened it's eyes on the savannah... Eyes that were now deeply contemplative. Eyes that grasped the necessity. The giraffe new above all else, why it truly and deeply needed to fly.

"Simply, of course, because only puce...well...wait a minute. Would puce? That was damn non-linear. Of course it is stupid, you're dreaming. Who said that? My body?"

"No, me, Pouncer. The cat from the other story."

"Is this some trick of the lions?" The giraffe rotated freely in space, riding uphill on a glob of grape jelly.

"No, it's an artifact of the associative process", chimed in Looka who was looking askance at Pongo. Pongo could not bring himself to look her in the eye. He pretended to be interested in the tentacles which were springing from his head.

"Can I fly?"

"Can't you?" asked Lynx, the sometimes other cat, as she spit a piece of fluff clear across the galaxy. "It looks to me like you are doing a good job right now. Is there that much difference between riding grape jelly and flying? It isn't a conveyance you know, so much as an extension of yourself."

The Giraffe thought about this, and then about the color puce. She was unable to recall what that color looked like precisely. The more she thought about it, the more concrete it became until she could just about taste it. The wind whistled past her ears. She landed softly.