The girl lives a million feet in the sky, and when she feels lonely she’s almost convinced it could be nice to return. To what, to what? The girl has no idea, though when she reaches the moon, all she wants is to grow like ivy: all-consuming and wild and silent. There, she watches the earth intently: the rooftops, the edges of the clouds curling like desire, the way airplanes cut the blue air open like the belly of a fish. When she hovers just a hundred feet in the air, she’ll overhear their conversations. In midtown, the voices ricochet from mirrors constructed like tubes of lipstick…they are worried, of course, because they are tethered in the way something is always wanted, measured, expected. When she hears these words, when she feels trapped living in this pre-ordained life, she’ll slowly scale the glassy office buildings and stare inside at the board meetings and slide decks like a ghost riding an invisible elevator. Why is it easier to simply avoid the ground? Maybe because down here, they can’t help but hunt her with questions she can’t answer, or because she feels the iron molds quietly closing in, ever so tightly, around her ring finger, her belly, maybe because each day on earth is just another game show episode… once, she asked if we were happy and we answered with our credit scores, our degrees, with our spot in line for the Great American Rat Race. I watched her listen to us, but could tell she would rather be dancing with helicopters and chasing blimps. It wasn’t too long after that when she disappeared, and I must admit I do miss her… last week I even stood on the corner of Hudson street staring at the moon and there she was: floating away like a free helium balloon.