You fasten your seatbelt. The plane is landing. To fly is the opposite of travelling: you cross the gap in space, you vanish into the void, you accept not being in any place for a duration that is itself a kind of void in time: then you reappear, in a place in and in a moment with no relation to the where and when in which you vanished. Meanwhile, what do you do? How do you occupy this absence of yourself from the world and the world from you?

Italo Calvino If on a Mid Winter’s Night a Traveller