"I take a breath,
pull the air in til there's nothing left.
I'm feeling green,
like teenage lovers between the sheets.

Knuckles clenched to white
as the landing gear detract for flight.
My head's a balloon,
inflating with the altitude.

I watch the patchwork farms
slow fade
into the ocean's arms.
From here they can't see me stare;
the stale taste of recycled air.
Calm down, release your cares;
the stale taste of recycled air."

-The Postal Service