This poem is my poor, honest
excuse for an airport,
since I doubt I'll ever get around
to building you a real one;
stubby runways
of instruction—in digital code, some
short bits of information, to which
I only hope
you'll give me a break
and apply a little energy. Basically:
keep flying towards the light
at constant angle A. Then, just
trust me—you'll make
it someday.
