On our way back to the military airport we passed a new attempt at growing trees – a camp of sad, waist high conifers hunched right over and dead on one side. They could be useful if you needed to know the direction of the prevailing wind – except that you never would, because invariably the same wind would be clutching at you, shaping your body into a lopsided hunch.
But right now, though, I’m flying through a very different kind of air – miles above the Sahara desert with the icebergs still gliding in my mind. The journey back with the others ejected from the land of whiteness is crackling in my brain – watery molecules of memory slowly forming. Dancing through the night in the hot, rolling bar, staggering drunk and dripping into the frozen moonlit air, reflecting off the ghost-blue icebergs, drifting silently through a black and bottomless sea.