In the jetliner flying westward across the continent where at such a height the sun will have stopped setting to linger in the long in-curving grapefruit crescent of the horizon for what’ll seem like forever. There you’ll see such impossible landscapes, such unrecognizable mountains, enormous unidentifiable lakes, vast plains, never ending dark wooded wildernesses and all washed over with that soft hazy pink light of the ever setting sun; and transfixed, you’ll have the uncanny feeling that you alone are conjuring the land from out of formlessness and void; that somehow even as you apprehend it you create it. Which is not so far from the truth, um, phenomenologically speaking. You’ve got the apprehension of a god from the ice bejeweled window and godlike too because no one else on the plane’ll seem to notice the thrill of the slowing of the rotation. But as the plane drops from the sky over the pacific, so finally will the sun and landing in the foreshortened world you’ll be back to regular size in the crowded smelly plane and all at once it’ll be plain old claustrophobic night. Welcome to Los Angeles.
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