Sometimes when jet lag and sleep deprivation are all riding my back, and I'm not sure what city I was just in or where I was going, I think that maybe the only real thing in the world are airports and planes, and the rest is just a dream or hallucination. Like I'll live out a thousand years in empty blue suspension, till the memories of having a home, a family, friends all just fade away and there's nothing but the seat-back in front of me and the view out the window and whatever stories I can tell about the things for sale in the Sky Mall catalogs.

They used to say that it's not where you're headed but the journey there that matters, and if that's so then Western Civilization is dieing one delayed flight and in-flight movie at a time. Or maybe just me - the white men in black suits seem to be bearing up just fine. Sometimes I fantasize about leading a charge to the First Class cabin, tearing out their self-satisfied jugulars with my teeth, and liberating my flight for the Coach Class masses. Most of the time that seems like a bad idea.

So far, every plane I've ever been on has eventually landed. I've always gotten out and stumbled bleary-eyed into the World I left behind, and everything's like I remember it. But I'm not convinced. I'm not going to get complacent. Every time I check my luggage and get my boarding pass could be the time I sit down on the for-real Flying Dutchman and ride into the sky forever, just a ghost in the infrastructure. I'm just waiting for it.

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