I Think the Asian girl beside me may be dead.

She's curled up in what seems a completely unnatural fetal position,the rational side of my brain assures me she is sleeping.

35,000 feet above the ground being held up by what is essentially, so man thousand tons of steel and meticulously over packed luggage which is being steered by an underpaid slave wage who is given "turn around" goals.

A person whose voice you will hear perhaps twice in your lifetime and whose face in all likelihood you will never see.

now what was that about rationality?

We don't live in a rational world and I'm thankful for that, it makes so many things plausible.
I am however not thankful for this unresolved droning in my ears.

I don't care where the over wing exits are located, I've already accepted the fact that if this humming steel tube with me inside it is going to crash from 35,000 feet i will either instinctively find said exit, or instinctively realise like so many stunned rats; I AM FUCKED.

I want nothing to do with your gourmet coffee selection and fuck your "luxurious" hot chocolate.

Leave me alone to my book and let the Asian girl sleep (rest?...) in peace.

You definitely write more when you move,maybe it just makes you analyse more,
but God damn that Zimmerman was right!

You'll never write anything unless you move and You'll never fall in love unless you act like a fool.