Saturday, February 7, 2015

From: Homo Faber by Max Frisch

"We were coming in to land exactly as though there was an airstrip underneath us; I pressed my face to the window, you never see the runway till the last minute, when the brake-flaps are already out.
I was surprised that the brake-flaps didn't appear. Our plane was obviously avoiding any curve so as not to lose height and we flew on over the flat inviting plain; our shadow moved closer and closer to us, flying faster than we, so it seemed, a gray rag on the reddish sand, flapping.
Then rocks.
We rose again."

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