It is fire.  I haven't seen half of what I claim to.  Most of it is in my head.  Staring up from behind the armrest, half focused and gathering.  I have that feeling again, I've been resisting it.  It needs to be different.  Possibly the the chaotic, just-too-loud sonic collisions of the airport.  Here I am looking out the window.  Looking out at the worker unload baggage to and from.  This is his every day, but my escape.  I'm looking out the window and sharing with as many points in time.  Teeming with possibilities. I just want to hop from rock to rock in search of the perfect terminal perch.  It is uncomfortable and dry, surrounded on three sides by glass and freezing atmosphere.  The icing will prove to be a problem, but tomorrow I am gone.  Tomorrow I am on a rough sand beach, the fog and silt stretch out infinitely in indistinguishable directions.  I hear the birds call, know that I have stolen this and take comfort. It's you. A fools hope that allows me to play out scenarios, each one more unlikely than the next.  Each no more than wisps in the salt stained air.  Places I have never been.  Places the placeholders for parts of my physical form once sat and laughed and cried in.  I press my fingers against the glass, they squeak dully as I drag them down.