"Maybe when I'm older it will all come down but it's killing me now.” What am I to cling on, if even the evanescent waft fails to remain intact? A shaft of ineffable dread strikes me.

I appealed to my little nook of nonchalance, the insular of words i dwell upon whenever needed. The gentle riptide of another life-wayfinder found me well, gratefully before the mental stress saps the strength. He's at peace with himself yet at odds with the world, Whereabout reads. It resonates with my subconsciousness, for I fathom it as a tactic of abiding all the unideal, if only I were dare to live with this insurgency. In the ambient voices riddled with glib claims, pros and cons, I’m trembling, unconvinced.

In the seat reserved for me and only for me, i clenched to the sentience excluded for me, excluded for my presence at the site at the moment. The lachrymose baby disturbs and retunes the shapeless stillness that has kept me sane. I've grown acquainted with malaise. I frame it as perennial. Lament not, the crowd stays blind of what my feelings of mind afford me. “Free is feeling they can’t take from you.”

Seats away the window left me a last gate that opens to the outside world, the residue of experience, springing. Clouds scudded by, too slow, too quick. The sky was dissolving in pink and blue, a hue that consoles passenger of all kinds. Until the tilt was steered too high to see the realm not yet darkened, as if the sun departed upon the same lane as the flight did. Unpredictable weather, unconjugatable caprice.