It’s a gulp of six dollar Fiji water from a travel essentials shop.
It's an empty purell dispenser from 2021.
A state between states overseen by the state.
An airport is a brave performance of solidarity-a place to yawn deeply because you’re tired, inhaling the collective breath of strangers, many of whom you have fundamental problems with.
An airport is a nursing hut with malware likely in its charging ports.
An airport is a transactional massage recliner, a neck pillow kiosk, a nicotine fit.
An airport is a celebrity chef-sponsored taco cafeteria. It's a strange line on your Capital One bill- a liminal expense, money tossed in to the ether after you finally get your shoes on just right, your bag over your sore left shoulder, after a desperate grab from a dirty grey tsa tub if your carry on made it through the x ray machine, that is.
What is an airport?
A series tubes that babysit you then siphon you into another more unpredictable, potentially violent tube.
Sidewalks that walk for you 'cause you're too slow. Anticipate the step-off and you lose your balance, but there's another one in five steps to pick you right back up, so please be ready for it.
In an airport you're a baby- a poopy poopy baby. Stop asking for for more cheese pumps on your assembly line chicken taco 'cause the nice lady at the Ipad has had enough of your shit and it’s ten minutes to boarding time.
I laughed out load at this