Sometimes he knew things just by touching his fingertips to the surface. Things about people in other rooms, a head turning away and the way someone looked at another, watching their hair glide by in the lamplight. He could read their conversations pass through their laughing lips, hear the clink of wine glasses on unseen tables.
It was maddening. He just wanted to focus, to hold onto something fierce and not let go, but the harder he pressed the more the visions came, viscous like a syrup of casual chatter gliding down his spine.

So he let go, turned away from the work at hand. Stared into the sky and wished he could see visions of things out there. At least they would be truly unknowable. At least out there the creatures would be different enough that the visions would be incomprehensible to him. He wanted to glide somewhere between spaces, just above and just below, be alone and empty inside, alone and yet.
Someone was talking to him, a chuckle, a reminder of the task at hand. A gentle nudge. He focused and pulled himself into the vision again, and heard the whir of machinery as the box on his neck started its work.
Information being sought, he was just a conduit, a tool for others. Passage on the next flight promised. Maybe out there. Maybe peace sometime, in a space between.