There are few reference points at fifty-three hundred feet. Up here, in vertigo’s realm, the eyes play tricks on the mind; the landscape that once felt familiar alters and shifts into shapes, tricking the senses, as if in a dream. Above willingly yields to below, except for a thin and ever-shifting horizon that insists on keeping them separate. Here, where the air is thin, what was real and solid surrenders to a different—though no less beautiful—landscape. It’s only when we surrender to this dream that a new territory emerges, and we see, for the first time, what is kept from ordinary eyes.
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