The bright beam of the moon emerging over the horizon line provides the necessary point of reference to gauge the stability of the flight path.
Imperceptible variations in altitude become perceptible as the right wing outside the window wavers gently with the softness of a living body, quietly breathing in and out of the silhouette of the moon momentarily slivered by the shell of the aircraft.
Suddenly it becomes obvious why this flying machine is also called a vessel, and the vast emptiness of the air instantly gains viscosity by means of a metaphor. In the deepest stillness of the night I gain consciousness of the quickest motion I will ever experience: 922 km/h, and hardly a sign to give away the fact that we’re moving at all. Only the subtle breathing of the right wing in and out of the moonlight, and the path carved by the stream of my own piss, slightly askew, always landing marginally off centre at an angle that would seem to defy the laws of physics but that actually does nothing other than encapsulate them.