Night flight to San Francisco. Chase the moon across America. God, it’s been years since I was on a plane. When we hit 35,000 feet we’ll have reached the tropopause, the great belt of calm air, as close as I’ll ever get to the ozone.
I dreamed we were there. The plane lept the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth and that was frightening but I saw something only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things, souls were rising from the earth far below. Souls of the dead of people who’d perished from famine, from war, from the plague and they floated up like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo wheeling and spinning and the souls of these departed joined hands and clasped ankles and formed a web a great net of souls, and the souls were three atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired.
Nothing is lost forever. In this world there’s a kind of painful progress; longing for what we’ve left behind and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so.