Arabian Nights

I'll take mine in the morning. Strap myself in without a belt nor restraint but by those thick threaded loops creeping up the base of me, covering my thighs. Touching the calf and lasooing itself while riding the wind all around me, the magic carpet and I become one.
It feels like what a magic carpet ride could quintessentially be described as but still any words used to perfectly describe it would not be adequate for someone inexperienced.
I'm flying. I have the luscious grass beneath me, shorn so short it feels like velvet. This is like cycling in Thailand. Arms spread out, prepared having been measured in claps, I cut through the Earth's verticle field. Down a hill I sore and accelerate creating a change in flux. Euuuumf! Euuuuumf! So remarkable, this feeling of flight. So relatable to these early mornings where I'm wrapped in a carpet and thrown into the river. Never fear, I always escape to see another week and as a special token from my inner self, twig like bones break free from my skin- Magic carpet. Magic carpet you pull your thick threaded loops around my head and cover my eyes. Too much like wool, too many stands of fibre creating the illusion of one, I break free of your hold.
Carpet you'll mould. Drained I am, laying at the bottom with caps of gates, that'll soon be drained.
However you're magic; your magic. small bones piercing outwards from beneath my skin, magic gives me wings sans carpet, like a chicken, a pixie, a fairy, an angel. But not without the carpet. Magic belonging to, magic it is, carpet.