You start out thinking it's a child-like feeling. You look out the window and wonder whether this is your first flight or your tenth. Maybe it's your hundredth or even more, who knows? But you try to keep cool for fear of betraying this feeling to others and accidentally starting a conversation with your seatmate. One wrong move and suddenly it's “First time up in the air?” or “Headed home to St. Louis, or just visiting?”

You consider the people on the ground below, impossibly tiny versions of themselves running around, heading off to work or jury duty, the grocery store or the brothel.

Off in the distance you see another plane. It speeds off in another direction. Away from St. Louis. There are people just like you on that plane, and you know they're headed to do something or other. They could be looking out the window right now, maybe even right toward you. And they've got their own problems. (“Headed home to Reno, or just visiting?”)

You settle back into your seat, decide to thumb through whatever magazine is in the seat-back pocket in front of you. How many miles has this SkyMall travelled? How many germs has it collected on its grimy pages? You flip to a toaster that doubles as an egg timer so you can make perfect three-minute eggs while your English muffins reach a state of toasted perfection, which is next to the dog collar that plays Schubert's unfinished symphony when the dog barks too much.

You've successfully killed 12 minutes of this three-and-a-half hour flight. Nothing to see outside anymore, and the woman in the window seat seems to be settled in with John le Carré or Stephen King or some other piece of airplane reading. And it won't be peanut time for at least another hour.