text: We left the club hours ago and I can still feel the wave of the beat. The perfectly synchronized rush to explosive electronica heaven is building in the sound system of my mind - again. And again. The chemicals are slightly wearing off so as I tip out of the cab, I fumble in my back pocket for the crushed pack of cigarettes, find the next hapless victim, cradle her in my lips and light up. I have no idea how I'm even standing but I skillfully negotiate against the refrigerated wind and as the relieving foul tasting heat crackles from the suction into my lungs, my head begins to spin - or spin faster really - and I take off again helplessly laughing at the non-existent idiosyncrasies of everyone around me. Is there anyone around me? The burning rum purchased at the airport lounge is nauseatingly dancing its way through my digestive system. Sunglasses on and sleepless, I sidle past the smiling strangers in row 31 and slump into seat A. The moment my forehead touches the cold glass, my fever subsides. Soon the chill becomes unbearable but I can't move. I'm too high to sleep. All I want to do is tap my feet to the quiet roar of the engine, wedge my face against the window. And stare. It's a 3 hour flight from New York to Chicago and beaming through the thin haze - how many feet below us? 20,000? 30,000? - lies god's ice tray. Neatly separated by the fences of past disputes and lawsuits yet to be settled, last night's snowfall purposefully shimmers in random and infinite directions. Naturally vying for the attention of the other passengers - a standard fair of middle aged business travellers, pretend writers and holiday makers - the world outside cannot compete with the opportunity of a guilt free break from the kids. Or with the - soon to be discarded forever - typing. Or even with the Adam Sandler movie being shown for the 50th first time. Most of the shades are down. As we chase the sun, stalling its escape behind the horizon, I see another plane frozen in the sky slightly ahead of us, beating us, indifferently flaunting the majesty of the parallel streams in its trail. Like a yawning peacock, fanning its tail at cooing tourists, it casually gives permission to stare at how effortless it is to be graceful and humble and beautiful. "Why don't you be beautiful too? Can't you see how easy I make it look? Now eat my dust." This is not a race. There are no television cameras or radio commentators or photographers secretly hoping for a career making collision. No one is cheering along for victory. Well.... Not on my flight anyway. But I reckon that's because we're losing.