“as if the painter had caught them all/ in a rare moment of slow flight/ just before they drifted out of the room/ through a window of perfectly realistic sunlight.”

–Billy Collins, Not Touching

Write a poem or short story about someone who has started slowly levitating. Every day they get a little higher. Eventually they can no longer go to work or school or reach their fridge. Then they’re touching the clouds, and eventually they must reach space. Describe their experience. How do they feel about their imminent space-death? How old are they? Are they ready for their demise or do they feel it is cruelly unfair? Are there others floating too? Is it some sort of floating sickness? Does your character reach space or do they safely come back to ground (or die some other way)? Is there something they grab to take with them and comfort them on their way up? And what do they do in their last moments?