The day came when he got a funny look in his eye and firmly stated that he would cross the ocean, leave this clod of dirt floating on the surface of the water far behind him, and find some land where a man could stand with his legs apart and his arms wide without hitting the person standing next to him.

It was, of course, ill-fated and naive. He took the train every day, formulating his plan to escape. We told him it was pointless, but he would have nothing of it. He insisted it could be done. He would spend hours riding the line that looped around the the perimeter of the city between the beltway and the shoreline that kept us there. He would stand swaying back and forth with the movement of the car, gripping the pole like it was Moses’ staff, staring out the windows at the non-descript concrete speeding by. He would only stare outward, past the windows, the concrete, the tons of dirt and rock and out past the water towards a shore he swore existed. He was coming up with a plan.

We’d tease him about it to no end, but he’d just smile and turn back to watching the sky. He’d mumble something to himself about the soul, and we’d shrug and get on with more important things.

He’d sit and watch the metal slivers move across the blue and try to determine what they were. He had a feeling they were from somewhere, they had to be going somewhere. They couldn’t just be there, suspended in the sky like ice in a tall glass of liquid.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it does mean something. Maybe he can get out of here.