Through the knotweed. Down the ladder made of tree roots. Up onto the big rock. By the river.  I stand, mud on my ankle and cuts on my knees. The sun sits just barely above the trees as the sweat sits just above my brow.

The pressure on your chest weakens as the craft gradually decelerates to a halt, and you find all the mass has been pulled out of you, leaving only your volume.

Somewhere far away, just far enough away that you won’t find it, there is a highway that goes on forever.  Driving down that highway at 75 miles an hour, is a car that will never run out of gas.