Chicago has fog, go back to start, lose 6 hours.
A lost glove found battered in the street, something indescribable and hairy hangs from it.
Engine Tornadoes on the wet, damp taxi way.
The wonderful feeling of breaking the clouds, the billowing softness before you, the contours strangely welcoming. Small gaps reveling the city below remind you that you are at the whim of the tin can in which you fly.
My flying dreams are like a big jet liner: only barely able to get into the air, adjustments are slow and delayed.
The luminescent, perfect grid that is Chicago.
Anthony Stewart Head can sound like Peter Gabriel.