In any other culture the man across from me would be revered as a god.
I watch him manage his meal, a morsel to him. His hands engulf it, and with the patience of the Old Testament's 7 days creation, he guilds plastic fork and plastic knife through roast beef.. I am brought to think of the mechanics of his joints; forged no doubt, in the depths of Gaia, herself. I picture these bones operating deep within as he stares down on the fat American a row ahead.
"Your decadence is the oil greasing the gears of poverty, " he booms, now casually munching on his under-seat life jacket.
He yawns, stretching like some colossal cat-deity and I stifle myself, nearly yelling, "stop!"; for a moment I feared the chance that, at 30 000" cruising altitude he had the opportunity to punch through the fuselage, the sky, the fabric of space and strangle the moon for so casually accepting the praise of so many pagan women. Perhaps he loins have grown restless. No herd of women could hope to sate his nethers.
But instead he reaches down, removes a leather bound book from below his seat and glides pen on paper in this journal the size of all my luggage for the next two years. Pages fly by. The header, "Day 20" has disappeared some hours ago. Left handed, he pours over these that will become the manuscripts of future worshippers.
Day 20, 11:15 ...
The Gospel of the Travelling Avatar.
End, Day 1