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There was something indescribably magic about flight... no wonder Man had dreamed of it, aspired to it, and waxed poetically about it, for as long as he had existed: The mere idea of soaring with the birds, dancing among the clouds, and riding the wind currents, was as music to his soul; moving faster than it was possible for any living thing to move; unfettered from the ground, not seated inside a loud, rickety frame of wood and wire, or encapsulated inside a metal shell with screaming engines; able to go where you want, flying above the clouds or swooping through low branches; knowing that the mere effort was physically impossible; knowing that, at the very least, your eyes should be watering, and your lungs laboring to catch a breath, from the onrush of air... though, in fact, they are not; no question about it, flying was the best thing about his job—he just wished someone had gotten around to showing him the landing thing before he'd plowed head-first into the side of the Daily Planet building, and since Clark Kent was (naturally) nowhere to be found when he did it, landing him a manslaughter rap that would be exceedingly tough to beat...
(-adapted from As the Mirror Cracks)
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