Dad calls him the Flying Dutchman, which is supposed to be funny, but I question whether my father has been funny at all the past 60 years. The answer might be too depressing to discover. Besides, as infinitely non-hilarious this outdated nickname reference is, I prefer to refer to him as an angel. Which is actually funny, as he is the most complete non-believer I have ever had the pleasure to meet, not to add the most accepting, open-minded, kind and wonderful person. I could be biased, but after millions of years of human nonsense pushed into the nutshell of a tiny life, I would like to be biased. I would like to like him, and that's that.
The Flying Dutchman but lacks wings, and with that I guess he would be absolutely complete. But there is no human perfection, nor should there ever be; unless we so desire the world to burn forever. He is but an inch away from it, like the monsters are when I look at the world from the corner of my eye; except he shines while they rot.
I was in a bad, sticky spot; an ocean of human glue and disgust. And along there came a glorious vessel, a mighty ship unlike any other. Unaware of its own beauty and glory, which only adds to the effect; I was picked up and not a single piece was left behind. There, a different kind of approach was directed, one whose name I still cannot spell but always yearned to learn. Continuously having been asked to give up and bend and break, I was at last only asked if I wanted to give in. On my own terms and only as much as I wanted to.
Let dad make his jokes. At least then he smiles.