It’s so hot. I cannot bear the heat. I want to sit. So I sit, most awkwardly (as awkward as the word awkward), in the middle of the queue, in the middle of the terminal. Like a true hypergraphic I indulge in thoughts and words, numb to what other people think.
I wonder if the lost cause devotes the same time and energy thinking about the possibility. But the lost cause is tired and is about to give up. Advice to self: let go and move on. /crypticparagraph
The queue moved and I’m sitting on a real bench now.
Blankness. May be the best or the worst thing. The worst or the best thing. It might be the longed-for respite, or the undesired absence of something.
Blankness. I can fall asleep now. My exhaustion nestles comfortably in the arms of the humid air. (So my skin produces a by-product salt (salt of the city, not salt of the sea))
This is soporific heat at its worst. Or at its best.
I doze off. Then someone texts. And my peaceful reverie is awakened.
Can you feel the intoxication from exhaustion? So tired that my judgment is impaired, and I wholeheartedly believe that this wooden bench and this humid air is my bed with clean, cold sheets.