When you enter the clouds, something is different.

The airplane windows, previously shiny and clear, are covered with scratches, gouged so deep you fear for their integrity.

When you enter the clouds, something is different.

The cabin lights flicker into a deep red, menacing and grim.

When you enter the clouds, something is different.

Reaching into your bag of pretzels (which WERE pretzels just a moment before the clouds, you’re positive), you pull out nothing but finger bones.

When you enter the clouds, something is different.

You’d had a seatmate before, hadn’t you? A space in between, but he WAS there in the aisle seat. All that’s left is a pair of headphones atop a pile of clothes.

When you enter the clouds, something is different.

There are no more passengers. No more flight attendants. Only you, and a beverage cart slowly creaking down the aisle to your row. You’re struck with a moment of clarity: if that cart arrives, you will not survive.

When you enter the clouds, something is different.

You can no longer remove your seatbelt.

When the plane leaves the clouds, everything is different.