Who am I?

Who else is there?

The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg

yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed

Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old

cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats,

stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles,

disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups,

blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few

migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by

reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and

distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of

children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its

ever reasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane,

equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul,

broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mother tongues, violated

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