Three flights ago I was flying above a mountain range where the trees were so tiny I’m sure if you sneezed, they would have scattered like spit.Two fights ago you pinched me so hard I became a statue tense with the desire to punch a crater in your thigh. For all the analogies and metaphors we make comparing sections of our bodies to the sections of the earth- we haven’t seen that much. We’ve never climbed to the peaks of our mountain nipples nor seen the cracked and glowing fingers of lava nor sled down the continental slope in between our lungs. We breathe smoke: I breathe it out, you breathe it in-and when we pick flowers to decorate our toenails we pick apart their petals searching for the how and why they form the form they do. Why a radiating mandala instead of a straight line from a to b to z. When we wander, we always find the trails lined with love letters and dead grass oragamied into crosses, baskets, bridges for bright red ants. We always find a clearing where we always lie down and watch planes crash through clouds and make bets about when it will be our turn.