My industrial wasteland paints the purple sunrise over the terraced beach of Normandy. The real turning point was… flying through the amber. No more going sideways. No more empty words. Nowhere, ——-, which is also everywhere there. Crisp, cool mountain air. The No Name exit. Purging all the cynicism through the canyon. These sacred bonds twist through those canyons of time, endlessly, into that infinite chasm of ever-evolving return, back and through those same seven cycles with the parachute of eternity. The strangest life I’ve ever known. Just do what the signs tell you to, for you are in the thick of it now – 2500 miles deep. Keep at it for the distance, through the red full lunar vortex under the stars… once again waiting for the raising of the sun. Fulfill only your own prophecies… make them up as you go along, but please do follow the signs. Write then rewrite the rules, or have none at all. Stay foolish. The sun shines on the horizon of either side of your sphere into the blue abyss. If only to see the smirk on my face down in that sea, the wear of all those fierce winds of shame and blame, those lies that time forgot… to their infinite perpendicular. Stay hungry. Know that you will never come close to reaching the end. It is always about the journey, never about the destination. 14,000 meters above the clouds – hyper-maniacal the warp speed at which the alate reversal will transpire – one day I will make this plane fly backwards.