Flying home on a plane always made the man feel the same way. Confronting the (insane, brilliant, necessary) idea of flying through the sky, unnatural (he was an animal after all), yet completely commonplace (everyone does it), consistently put the man in a nostalgic, wistful mood. He'd picture his wife sitting on the edge of the bed, the afternoon sun coming from the window, happy to see him. He'd think on his kids, the way they were; a mixture of exasperation and wonder. He'd think on work the next day.

Grateful. That's how it felt.

He'd cut planes in half. Taken them apart. He knew they could hold him. Knew their strengths. Knew the odds in favor a successful arrival. But somehow THIS mode of travel always brought death into the equation.

This isn't a morose state of mind the man experiences. It's not morbid. In fact it was his favorite part of flying. He'd be home soon..grateful