People, small in their surroundings, made smaller still by the glare of the sunlight; they look for weightlessness but it’s as slippery as that green water you swam in. Cultivation has turned the landscape below us white, and we will later eat these things grown in straight lines, under hot dripping plastic. I want to follow rivers, but I also want to know what it feels like to be one, and actually we want too much, so I’m quiet as I keep my hands underwater until they crumple, protest. Higher now, the mountains look like the paper I routinely screw up and throw in the bin, all sharp creases and shadows. Clouds looking like when flour and water don’t mix, curdled and impossible to ignore. I wonder whether you count forwards or backwards when figuring out the other side of the world.