A glimmer toward. At height, glimpses through feel like chance. Chance feels like fortuity if the result is well-found. Well-found results that are chances, I am prone to find as gifts. Gradient isn't a good word for what I saw out the window, neither are progression, color, sunrise, morning. The best way to say what it's like to fly, I think, is to catch as best as language can, being so tired, feeling grainy, glossy plastic, drinking wretched coffee, trying to read Marx, being bleary, rubbing eyes, typing, looking . . . stop, see?