twelve hours is the approximate distance between a person’s words and their second thoughts. it’s taken me a few years of congested scrolling to realize the value of flight’s natural turbulence.

in those twelve hours i won’t come over the loudspeaker to announce what anyone might perceive to be feeling as they shake mid-destination. i’ve decided it’s better to stand outside the cockpit but inside myself when fears of death turn passengers into floating entrails before a voluptuous sky.

to crumble yet not be the crumbling is the moment of skyfall’s eternal standing.

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