One Boy's A Boy, Two Boys Are

And If At Times You Renounce Experience And Mind's Heavy Logic, It Seems That The World Has Rushed Along On Its Orbit, Leaving You Alone Flying Above A Forgotten Cloud Bank, Somewhere In The Solitude Of Interstellar Space.

I Grow Aware Of Various Forms Of Man And Of Myself. I Am Form And I Am Formless, I Am Life And I Am Matter, Mortal And Immortal. I Am One And Many -- Myself And Humanity In Flux.

At First You Can Stand The Spotlight In Your Eyes. Then It Blinds You. Others Can See You, But You Cannot See Them.

These Phantoms Speak With Human Voices — Friendly, Vapor- Like Shapes, Without Substance, Able To Vanish Or Appear At Will, To Pass In And Out Through The Walls Of The Fuselage As Though No Walls Were There. At Times, Voices Come Out Of The Air Itself, Clear Yet Far Away, Traveling Through Distances That Can't Be Measured By The Scale Of Human Miles; Familiar Voices, Conversing And Advising On My Flight, Discussing Problems Of My Navigation, Reassuring Me, Giving Me Messages Of Importance Unattainable In Ordinary Life.

Flying Has Torn Apart The Relationship Of Space And Time: It Uses Our Old Clock But With New Yardsticks.