Traveller

For the weary traveller, there are few things better than sitting in a massive, airy room with a view of the open sky. The crowd tries to make a din, but the noise is subsumed by the empty space, resulting in a quiet peace. Here you observe spent mothers, arms draped over the backs of their chairs, watching over their children. And men wearing hats, talking into their hands, talking of synchronicity.

Time. We're running out of time! Peer up, into the sky, through the water and into the sunlight. Weary limbs fall. Weary couples struggle to sit down, tripping on their luggage, dipping fish into mayonnaise while reading books. Strangers sit down together, make an uncomfortable silence, push a cup of coffee on a table of granite and wood.

The joyful businesswoman is frozen in a state of running, and the dreamer looks up at the clouds, aware of the silence, aware of the buzzing, and seeing conversations flowing soundlessly: words, words, transient words, floating into nothingness. Talk, talk, constant chatter, noise disappearing into the vacuous ephemeral, information quantized into bits, a beautiful woman in a rush to wait, stares, gestures, glances,

Waits.