The dawn breaks and the light slants through the make-shift cafe. The lights are not needed but they are on. The sun can do the trick alone. Regulations do not take into account, the sun in the cafe, in the corner, of the airport. Ugly green wedding chairs on flimsy cheap small tables. Brands screaming out, waiting to be touched, to be picked up. A ketchup bottle, stained red on a red background. The smell of coffee lingers in the air.
The final call is announced. The sprawling lounge, clean as a whistle, gives the impression of being a passage to another world. The yellow-on-black sign screams out the gate numbers. And I walk on. Through the passage. To another world.
The plane, connected, awaits. Humming in anticipation. Its frowning eyes staring you in the face. Reprimanding you for being one of the last ones to enter. The trip to the Sinking City has drawn to a close. Clear skies beckon.