The sky is an unbroken sea of space. An artist’s brush has painted it something close to empty, a nothingness that lies flat and undisturbed and makes her think of the long corridors of dreams, the hallways that go nowhere yet never seem to end.

An airplane shatters the sky, a fist punching through a delicate painting. She’s thankful for the noise, for the arrival of something other than nothing. The interlude is brief. The plane moves out of sight, taking her company and comfort with it, the hole in the painting closing up behind it.

Something close to empty.