Out in concourse F in Chicago. Not actually sure if I am at Midway or O’Hare. One of those details that might matter under some circumstances, but probably not these.

From the window seat on the inbound plane, I saw intricately patterned land, laid out according to need and want, and Far Flung Plan. The surface of the land was marked, experience and history traced along its skin in calligraphic notation.

There were stories in those lines, those colours, testament to the people who live there and all their plans. I wanted to tell you about this, to ask you about things I saw, but did not recognize. I wanted to watch your eyes scan the horizon. I wanted to see how your body responded. I wanted to feel your breath on my shoulder as you leaned to look.