No wither, wherewithal, or the hope of hanging on. We are
headed straight into the heart of the big overtones via a Xanax void-all until
we reach Tokyo2. What’s left of the California sun intense on my neck here,
shadows striking the thin navy blue carpet beneath me in a prison bar pattern.
Passengers sauntering in to pre-flight loading bay in drips and drizzle. No one
speaks here. Obasan planted into O magazine, Another next to her with pink DS.
Behind them, an aging Thai boxer maybe. Permanent pissed off expression carved
into striking face. Shaggy, inappropriate Jeri curl hair dyed blonde on the
sides and tips, going green. Someone else: one of those ultimate white people
you only ever see on international flights: crew cut, red flannel shirt,
buttoned up neat, tucked into Nike sweat pants. Two cold/flu masks on a pair of
passengers screaming biohazards to be.
Rapid fire Immigration. Like, no one is coming into this
country anymore. I’m either finally off the list that demands entry interrogation
or they just really, really need some more warm bodies in here.
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