Twisting, tilting, falling. Suspended in the locked infinity that is found in the cadence of a heartbeat, the last breath of a dying man. Every atom hurtling downward, pulled in by the magnetic embrace of the Earth's gravity. Above and below, nothing but tumbling, swirling blues. No breath resides in his lungs; it has all been pushed out into the atmosphere and is even now disentegrating, dispersing.
In time, they will praise him once again. They will dub him "The Miracle Man"; his face will be plastered in on billboards and his name will go down in tiny print in someone's history book. One last reprise, then silence. As he falls his fate is already sealed.
It's an invigorating and strangely liberating feeling having nothing onto which to hold. Just the endless, endless eternity of the fall. Tumbling through clouds. Hearing the unearthly shriek of burning metal on a collision course with the ocean far below. The small conscious part of him knows he may not survive this. Strangely, the rest of him doesn't care. If he's going to go out, might as well do it with a big bang.
Closing his eyes, he soars toward the sea, awaiting its welcoming embrace to wash over him, drug him and pull him downward, ever downward into its depths.