boeing 747 makes emergency landing on massive amongus forehead

Call me blue. Some years ago - can’t really remember how long precisely - having finished all my tasks, no money in my pocket, and nothing else to do. I thought I would sail about a little and see the spacey part of this world. It’s a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating my vitals. Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself Involuntarily pausing before the coffin of yellow, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the the vent, and methodically knocking Against the iron bars, I account it high time to get to space as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the deep space with me.

There now is your insular city of the Mars, belted round by wharves as meteorite bents by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her turf. Right and left, the vents take you beyond the room. Its extreme downtown is the O2 chamber, where the food is washed by the Solar flares, and cooled by ice baths.

Circumambulate the cafeteria of a dreamy Wednesday afternoon. Go from Engine bay to reactor, and from thence, by the sailing direction, 237.7 degrees towards the sun. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in space-fullness reveries. Some leaning against the tanks; some seated upon the Med bay; some looking over the window of skeld; some high aloft in the cams, as if striving to get a still better sussy peep. But these are all sussy crewmates; of weekdays pent up in Munt and shaving -- tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to Desks.

But look! Here come more crewmates, pacing straight for the O2, and seemingly finding a fix. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the code of the day; loitering under the sussy balcony of yonder crew beds will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the O2 as they possibly can without falling in. Yet here the crewmates all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the shooting the meteorites of all those crewmates attract them thither?

But here comes an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valleys of the Amorgus, my home town. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy bong. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side red sussy colour. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to deep space whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to space as a passenger.

No, when I go to space, I go as a crewmate, right before the vents, plumb down into the darkness, aloft there to the admin chamber. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from task to task, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of honour, The transition is however, a keen one, I assure you, from a crewmate to a sussy one, but even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old captain in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old crew among us crewmates may order me about--however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way--either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

I go as a sussy crewmate, one that holds the helm of fate Within his own hands, to find in the deep dark void what life is. I am prepared to lose my hairline, my sanity, everything. Find me the sus.