The mystery of aviation

Suddenly the Mazowian landscape reared, it swerved askew from its logical angle and absolutely refused to straighten out no matter how much mental effort put into it doing so. The gray curtain of clouds was perforated. Blue sky, always present here at these altitudes, brushed against the pupils of my eyes. By now a cozy calm smoothness reigned beneath the wing. Cotton candy spread out over the spacious sky. I am free from rain, torrential storms, inundation and all sorts of excesses of nature, I am getting a rest from myself. In a state of suspension I belong nowhere. At the controls is an important surrogate for God. During the last seven years I obstinately stuck to the earth. This dearth of take offs would have lasted longer were it not for Józef Wittlin.