Flying out of Boston on a clear evening is the reason window seats were invented. From high up, the streetlamps make bright golden necklaces, laid over with occasional fluffy cushions of cloud.
The definition of truest blackness is being able to see nothing outside, save the light at the tip of the wing. Even the wing itself is entirely invisible, black on black -- the light simply drifts along beside my window, a few feet away, embedded in the black.
Over a sparsely populated stretch of the midwest: looking down is like looking up at the night sky. Here is a sparse spiral galaxy of a small town, spinning out from its center. Around it are the lonely stars of remote houses, surrounded by purest empty space.