Flights organized by the world's most frequent flier, punkin, are designed for one thing, and one thing only, to get you to your destination as quickly as is humanly possible.
To feel the invisible red thread of you pulling me home, to cycle through so many sama-sama airports in a single day, its just a journey that takes place in a sense of suspended animation. I lose time on the way back, its like the planes are fighting the sun, like they're desperate to keep me here, to run on the spot while the world rotates beneath us.
I've taken some great photos this week, many of them from the windows of these droning behemoths, and I'll bring them home to you.
It's been a long, strange trip, punkin, I feel like a lot of undercurrents in my life have broken to the surface, and that I'm getting closer to places I'm trying to go in some directions, and further away in others.
The journey of being a parent, punkin, is a long one, and this sense of geographical dislocation I'm feeling right now in many ways mirrors the sense of mental dislocation that sometimes strikes me when I try to reconcile some of the dumber things I do with the incredibly important job that I have to do.
I Love you, punkin, and I can hardly hardly wait for these next fourteen or so hours to be gone, to feel the arms of you and your mother again.
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