on the departure the woman to my left was writing furiously line upon line page after page; i thought it was poetry, it was her new job description.
on the return the woman to my my left was reading laughing out loud, smiling and covering her mouth; she kept her finger on the page as the flight attendant handed her a snack.
a few rows ahead of me a man spills his drink; the ice nearly reaching my feet. i didn't hear the cup crash beacause i was listening to music.
are we really flying? or did the plane jump high enough for the world to spin beneath us?