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I remember looking out the airplane window into a bright white blank slate.

And maybe in the end all it meant was there too many clichéd Hollywood effects stored away in my brain, but for a second I swear it meant we were all dead.

Maybe I knew, deep down, that we'd emerge from that logical product of condensation perfectly alive.

But for a second, we were all dead together.

First-class passengers still closed their business deals, those girls in front of me kept checking out that boy, and he kept pretending not to notice.

The Avengers on my neighbor's iPad kept saving New York, but despite the Hollywood effects, no one wrote a hero into our movies.

Not a single one.

We were just more extras grounded into the screenplay's ink and forgotten before the popcorn ran out.

And maybe that was okay.