If your Ford had a Matthew McConaughey, it would be a Lincoln

Cloud Trajectory

Early morning. You get in, shut the canopy and fasten your seatbelts. You adjust the elaborate controls over which only you have complete understanding. Who else would? You built it, after all.

Seven hundred horsepower screeches haltingly like a over-excited goose but then rumbles to life. Flames erupt from beneath the cowl. Contact with the ground ends right before the runway does. The airplane rises steadily.


Sailing. Clouds, above and below. The ground is invisible, it's only you, the machine and the sky. The engine hums deeply. A storm brews, but it can't touch you. You're too fast for it. Your airplane, piloted by your love and expertise, can attain almost six hundred kilometers per hour.

Here, in this little bare-metal tube of unrefined machinery, you sail through the sky. Uncomfortable in the hard seat. Obliterated by noise. Yet surrounded by complete peace.

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