nothing greets you as you shoot off the tarmac. There is no light and there is no dark and there is no sensation of ground or of falling. There is a nostalgia to rippling pastures of grain that paint themselves across the back of your eyelids. You imagine you would make no sound, leave no breeze, you exist there all the time and never when someone stops by to see you. You exist in the space between the back of the dresser and the wall, in the gaps between gears in a watch. Your ears pop and your knuckles click. The pistons of the engine fire and your check engine light vanishes from the dash.