I took the plane to Santa Barbara today. The Santa Barbara Airport is lilliputian, really, so the planes that jet passengers to and fro are proportionally small in size. They're the kind Howard Hughes probably flew, with small propellers conducting cacophonous symphonies. I sat by the left propeller today, and while dividing my time watching the propeller spin until it looks like it wasn't even turning at all and looking past the clouds and onto the landscape, I couldn't help but think about how terrible but excitingly bizarre it would be if a bird flew into the propeller and splattered its beak and feet and feathers, blood staining the pristine windows.
I think some people call this "morbid."
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