And I allow myself to imagine this aeroplane exploding. The dirty underwear of the woman two seats in front of me, previously thrown into a tightly-closed plastic bag in her metal trolley, is suddenly in the air, flying next to a destroyed MacBook Pro. A coffee cup, shattered to pieces, starts taking velocity towards the ground. All the 5 litres of blood each of us approximately contains is dispersed in the air, along what’s supposed to always be inside. This simple misplacement above the clouds of this blue sky is absolutely terrifying, but no one is seeing: there are eyes there, but no image is passing through them to be seen.  

This disaster would bear no witness, just to become another newspaper title: a single-instance Bermuda triangle above the Swiss-Italian Alps, they’re searching for this metal and organic machinery destroyed bits. How long would it take for the people I love to know that it was me on that plane, along with the other 131 passengers of the flight FR 109? Who would I become in each person’s mind? 

I always think of my mom when I think about my death. I think about the pain she would be unable to sustain and this makes me feel somehow caged in this unreal life. Some friends might miss me like the rain and tell it to someone high in a club toilet in one of those random-but-somehow-important Berlin clubnights, someone who’s not me. My artist career truncated in its non-existence and in the memory of people around me who would say “Luvi was so talented”. 

The centrality of myself in my life against the utter unimportance of it in the universe: this schizophrenia drives me insane as I type these words in my iPhone notes. My face doesn’t carry any expression as I think about my death, as I think about the end of everything: the sun will explode, the universe will expand forever or maybe contract at some point and expand again and contract and expand and contract. A beating heart.  

We land and someone attempts to start a clap. Luckily nobody follows: this should not be a celebration.