It's just the future. We can't hear it here. A midnight rain, detected by our moon-white arms. Slow dances around a secret pole, a dangerous dip in a sea. That's all it is. It's less than seven. My playlists, haunted by the aromas of Hoogvliet. Stars to guide the airplane. Gliding over the jet-black facilities, night's postcard curling at the edges. Soporific navigation charts, a radio's tuned to easy. Headphones stolen from another airline, useless here. Charity. It's just the future. Nothing happens now. Desire hasn't even been invented.