Somewhere between Toronto and Berlin we hang—beads of dew—lachrymal, free from gravitational demands, trembling in the fervor of a sleepless northern sun scattering its dawn over Greenland’s desolate winter. Auroral wings lift us gently beyond midnight’s turbulent slumber—an airy lullaby. Humming, hearts keep time with beating engines. There are two lifts in flight: One a conspiracy of hours, whose sleight of hand skips over meridians; the second, a Lilliputian parody of scale—faith performing parlor tricks with altitude. Suspension of disbelief keeps us airborne soaring through thinning atmospheres. Anything to distract from the drop—it is both—staggering beauty, unwavering terror.