The Upper Airs.

Every time I stop believing in God, I start thinking about planes. Not the planes themselves--I think about the windows, about being in the mouth of a cloud, staring into solid white. They're not so different, God and this place; they are the only things I can think of that dissolve even the idea of space, that have no walls, that contain nothing. Nothing, not even I can interrupt it by moving, signalling time. If I yelled your name out to either, my voice would never come back to me; it would shatter, or else be swallowed.

In this place, in this plane, in my thoughts of God, I know, if nothing else, that I am displaced. At best, I am only visiting. If I were to breathe even a sip of what's out there, I would drown. If I stabbed my way through this window, stopped this small heart, I would be gone, inhaled like pale smoke.