You know how it is when you’ve been traveling for seventeen hours and the first thing you want to do when you get home is burn your clothes? I just spent about nine hours on a trans-Atlantic flight going westbound and time lost all meaning but my socks somewhow still accrued filth. I saw two full movies on the plane and three others that always appeared to be just starting. And then getting to the plane in the first place involved a seemingly endless series of trains. Chris came straight from Bristol, so his trains followed a perfect Zeno’s Paradox succession—first the long train from Bristol to Paddington, then a shorter train to Heathrow, then one to the terminal, then oneto the gate. And then when we got to the gate, there were little amusement-park-choo-choo tracks going down the jetway to the plane. Okay, maybe not. But we wouldn’t have been surprised ONE BIT if we’d had to get on one of those little railroad hand-carts in order to make our flight, because travel can be batshit crazy like that.
I’d write more, but my brain still feels like this photo:
I mean all my synapses are like lurchy red buses in rush-hour traffic. I think I need to sleep. Good night!