Family trees are moldedNo longer grows in summerHolds it closer lets it goPicks a fruit but keeps it wholeCan't keep the submarining

Can't keep the light from fading.

The snow is coming.

Awake with a start.

"Are we flying?"

A glance... only white.

An odd sensation.

To myself... I don't remember taking off.

"Are we flying?"

The gloaming reveals nothing.

I wonder if I could disappear completely into the white.

A scent of citrus triggers memories of stripping stain off a very old door.

Need to get above the miasma.

"Are we flying?"

Still can't tell.

I... don't ... know ... why ... I ... feel ... so ...

Clarity gradually cedes ground.

Dandruff flakes on the polyester headrest cover.

Stretch marks unfurl on a pregnant pause in the conversation.

Driving fast over a crest, stomach drop sensation.

Did the wheels leave the ground?

The jolting return of clarity flenses the psyche bare, leaving it naked.

You Are Suddenly Aware Of Who You Are.

You Wish You Weren't.

"Are we flying?"

Nobody knows.