you're on a flight -- window seat -- looking down at the earth below. what you've left behind grows smaller; squares of green and brown multiply from what used to be green fields. try and remember the last time you felt so much at once. every few hundred miles after that you wake from sleep. the air is tight. everything you need is further from you now, but you know it's only a matter of time until you feel your perspective sway. the space you felt as you were lifted into the air can't possibly compare to the distance between you now. you want to sleep, but you can't quite. then you want to wake, but you can't bear the weight. where are you, you want to know. what are you eating and how does it taste now that i can't taste it with you. you don't want to die, but you're dying. you look at the food on your tray and swear you'll never eat meat again. watching the moving map on the screen above you is tedious and leaves you feeling dry-eyed, but you stare anyway. every time you pick yourself up enough to find the washroom, someone else stands before you do, and you give up for another half hour. you lay your head in your window's curve, determined to sleep. it hurts to cross time zones. something is wrong -- this is wrong. it's too late. a field is now an ocean. hold your breath, they're about to open the door. smile like you mean it.

"auf wiedersehen!"