Far away, a glimmer of light just barely breaks through the vast darkness which surrounds my flying hunk of metal.  I imagine that I am falling through the blackness below, or maybe soaring through the one above.  If this eight hundred thousand pound machine can do it, why shouldn't I?  
The perfect, twinkling stars above are mimicked by the harsh yellow street lamps below, as if man admired the stars so greatly that, with youthful clumsiness, he attempted to recreate them, his hands clammy and unskilled compared to the divine and perfect ones of nature.