Rotating in space, lonely as the clouds roaming the blue skies above, a satellite streaks the ether. Living without a soul is easy to do in this condition of statelessness, circling as ebbs and flows of the generations pass below. People, unlike satellites, are all fallible and inconsequential in the end – not so cold and continuous as a satellite streaking the skies, but also not so dispassionate to the degree of those well-fastened metal buoys emitting frequencies above the earth.
People are also imperfect and involved, something that a fabricated orbiter never takes as accusation in its looping spins high above the bloody plains of Africa and commercial frontiers of Asia. They can follow wandering, biting people if they choose but only through trigger of others on the ground in the melee. Well above the frayed ends of the earth, satellites circle and follow the sun at all times.
The constancy is alarmingly simple high above the blue splotches of sea; the large areas of green act as the battlefields for all kinds of wandering souls. People are the same again, and from the skies it is impossible for satellites to size up any of them, like ants building mounds up from the dirt of the world. The constancy seems just as simple down below the great expanse of the stars.
-sitting on a plane from Boston to Chicago, listening to Radiohead, and reading the USA Today