Bright idea, wasn't it.

What better to fight the pull of gravity than a

heavy machine. Blades that

beat at the air, as if to find

handholds in the sky until, oh dear,

we've started the climb. Why why why

am I doing this. You do realize, don't you,

that we haven't eliminated our weight from the

delicate equation that holds our very lives in its precarious

balance. Actually, the addition of forces, vectors, and

yes, more weight, no doubt exponentially increases the

complexity and, likewise, the

danger, and yet you feel just

fine putting your faith in the numbers.

You didn't follow any of that, did you. Ugh, you're so

stupid. You're smiling right now. How can you be

so idiotically unconcerned? Can't you feel,

can't you physically feel

the vertigo of possible miscalculations, the natural inclination

of everything to tip

and send us hurtling down? My legs

have become hollow, just one lovely symptom

of my hyper-awareness of the continuous

fight to stay adrift. Relax for

just one moment, and--um, excuse me, Mr. Pilot, sir, but ISN'T THIS

HIGH ENOUGH ALREADY?!

...No?!

Fine then, let's keep gaining altitude, further

provoking Earth's terrible separation

anxiety. What jealous

wrath will envelop us when she pulls us

down from our blasphemous escape, righteous

retribution for our discontent with her

most generous provision. I'm not making

sense anymore? Well, what did you expect?!

Don't you know that death would be instant?

that we would suffer excrutiating pain?

Okay fine I'll shut up, so you can

enjoy the "experience" of "flying" without

my bad attitude. Sorry not sorry. I think

I've left my manners, and my stomach, somewhere

below.