Thin Air

The air is thin at 34,000 feet where the old man left the plane behind. He flew on ahead, far, far ahead, to the one destination that all are helplessly bound to find. Without a heartbeat his face finished smiling, as if once again a young boy; perhaps death shall be - and is - the last and greatest enduring joy. Every bird that has ever flown by it's own weight comes back down; every vapor that rises, by lack of weight, is never again earth-bound. Life is strange at 34,000 feet, where the air is so thin; out where souls soar beyond broken bodies that have forgotten how to grin.