The stewardess showed how to fit the metal seat buckles together for the 842nd time.

I ignored her.

The plane teetered along the wide road and inched up, straining.

The scratched window revealed the landscape below.

I see straight lines. Straight lines are everywhere.

Straight lines are man-made inventions.

Roads, fences, telephone poles, houses, billboards, all made of straight lines.

Ever see a squirrel or a hummingbird or a tree or a river work with straight lines?

Of course not.

Straight are for traveling. For building. For transporting. But as seen up here, mainly for dividing what is mine from what is yours.

I look at the land. Very, very little of it is natural.

Natural land changes, has texture, is often darker, cooler, more trees, supports wildlife, and doesn't have straight lines.

There's no one to complain to you in the wilds.

No one to tell you that life would be just wonderful if only you bought more of their company's pain pills, or how exciting and glamorous life can be with the right car to drive, or that beautiful women will adore you if you drink the right beer.

No one to hold a paycheck over your head, keeping you in a boring job.

A place where everything listens to you but nothing give you advice.

A place without so many straight lines.