after running through terminal after terminal after plane after plane—you grow a certain melancholy love for flying. the pinchers of whiskey and short glances out of the small window really gain appeal. life is fast. new words every week, new lessons every day, new moments every minute. you either learn to enjoy it, or suffer through the nights (perhaps both if you're lucky). bad and good aren't that bad and good. getting drunk at 3pm tastes a lot like a job promotion or a kiss by a lonely girl.