The sand is hitting my face and bare forearms. I can feel each individual grain sting lightly against my skin, and I can feel the heat from the sun.

I slowly open my eyes, fully expecting to see miles of sand in every direction.

I am still on the plane.

I close my eyes again, try to recapture the feeling, but it is gone.

Why do I feel so detached from my body when I am on an airplane? Disconnected, almost disoriented. Time moves differently in flight, slower or faster, sometimes it ceases all together. The longer the flight, the greater my bewilderment, paralyzed in my seat. Barely able to focus enough to read or watch a movie.

I remember a red-eye flight a few years ago, I was too tired to sleep and felt vaguely euphoric. The lights were low, and most people were sleeping, and then I saw Death. Death was walking down the center aisle, hood dark and masking its face. As Death drew near, it smiled, and leaned in close.

“Would you like any peanuts?”

I had confused Death with a flight attendant.

Again.