When I fly, I reside myself to the probable circumstance of never landing and remaining, forever, amongst the clouds. Caught in the winter wonderland of puff, accosted by wind rain and maybe struck by lightning. The silver lining. Drifting from blue to white to sun to night, feet not touching the ground. Up here I was stuck in a nightmare-land though, filled with my first sightings of unabridged poverty that left my mind screaming in confusion at everything, at the scenes that were documented and that we looked at and became immune to – people shitting in the streets and sleeping cuddling their flea infested turmeric covered dogs with their flea infested children behind them, pollution that left soot in your nose and made you feel like you were coming down with something, and the buildings, the unfinished apartment frames that housed people with the metal screaming up into the bright blue sky hot and resentful with mothers laying tired on the flat roofs of their houses with their bright dirty saris exposing waist rolls and scuffed feet. Feet that walked hours to work hours. In my head her feet were the Indian continent, cracked paths leading to gold, dry acreages waiting for rain and grain, brown and yellow dirt that got in between your toes and kept you up at night.