Thirty-Five Thousand Feet of Despair

Flaming Lips

Another moth disintegrates 
hovering in the beam of a searchlights 
that's looking for a trace of a plane 
whose pilot it's a shame has gone insane. 

You can see the silhouette across the moon 
he hung himself mid-flight in the bathroom. 

Why is it so high? 
Why is it so much?