"The future anthill appals me". This sentence by writer aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is something I've been recently thinking of. Exupéry died very young, at age 44, yet he was considered by some as a privileged aviator to die at such an old age: he indeed experienced a time in which aviators would die way younger - a time of war. On this very day, September 1st of 1939, war begun as Germany would invade Poland. Exupéry wanted to command in the Armée de l'air, the french military air force. But he was considered to be too old and phisically bruised to command. Yet he wanted to fly. For a man is such a tiny speck in the sky - but we mustn't look at the single dots: we look at the anthill.