The dim-lit roaring cabin is tunnelling its way in a smooth arc through the airspace of northern Russia, between Moscow and Archangel. Through the narrow window in the auricular moulding in the rear door, marked with the standard drilled perforations that allow pressures to equalise, the land mass beneath is Prussian ink, drifting serenely. Every so often the dark mass is interrupted by fractured mandalas of distant sodium lights, locked in suspension like bioluminescent creatures tracing their own peripheries.
This mechanism is all eyes and ears, the same species as text.
I am anticipating the timesickness that rolls out with every meridian line. This time it will be eight, clicking into seven.
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