I like to think of myself as a frequent flyer. Over 90,000 miles and counting, nearly three trips around the world. I have taken part on multiple flights of over nineteen hours sitting in a cramped, itchy, overstuffed seat on my way from one end of the Pacific Ocean to the other. Everything 40,000 feet up in the air seems so calm. The soft buzzing of the pressurized cabin drones in my ear. Dark and drearily, I glance out my frosted window. I take a peek at the twilight sky from my seat, stealing a glance at the moon, inspecting the frosted water droplets on the glass. The clouds sit still on the horizon, so fragile that a sneeze could whisk them away. Below me lies an ocean of marshmallows, white and lumpy. Above me expands the emptiness of space. A million stars freckle the sky. The moon burns itself into my eyes as slivers of the setting sun pierce through the marshmallows below. Within, the entire cabin is shrouded in a blanket of dark. Stewardesses occasionally pass me by with hurried looks and toothy grins as they pour drinks and close the cabin windows.
Lo, Darren, "Airborne (2012)" (2012). The Valpo Core Reader. 16.