We are important people on the plane. This is my pen hovering above the paper that is next to the peanuts. When the pen touches paper the imaginary music swells. The achey stuff of violins, cellos & pedal-laden guitars. The scrawl becomes script. Script becomes signature. Money is being made. Money is being lost. The plane steadies through sky. The land below a bit barren. So much brown. The youth of a day. Excess of vastness.
We are important people all being important on the plane. Look at her stack of paper. Some call her doctor. Look at the size of that paper clip. Seriously serious. Her pen methodically slashes & there is a hint of xylophone in the air.
The unimportant man beside us lacks zinc & thinks money grows wild like lychee in some tropical setting. Unimportant people wear flowers & imagine cocktails on a patio with a view of a not-so-subtle moss garden. I take my cocktails on the 40th floor.
On the plane we are all importantly unimportant. Imagination the suffering lot.
Below spots of water.