There’s a cemetery outside the airplane’s window, we were descending down to it. There’s no earth, no sky, only a cemetery. The window hangs over it like a daydream.

I read Clarice Lispector; the author. I read the author and the character, outside and inside. And I weep to the inside, no tears. Just salt in my mouth.

Being on a plane, always makes me write. Maybe because I’m so close to death, to falling, and I want to survive