Sometimes I think an airplane is as close as
we'll get to that star-scarred sky, but distance is
just imaginary lines drawn to make boundaries and
atmospheric pressure. This helium in my chest still
can't let me float away like a hot air balloon of fire and
butterflies and shredded paper.

Boarding now. One tiny step to be whisked away from
the colour-codes and regulations, suspended on air,
floating, in a steel-plated bubble with beads of sweatlike
rain jeweling the windows. They called it impossibility
years ago--a thousand miles in three hours in a lead
balloon. They're defying possibility with science and all
I'm asking is to defy probability with my pen.