Transit Lounge

In here, the coolness is other-worldly. On the conveyors, the passengers seem to float towards their destination. Down on the tarmac, a plane's wing welcomes in more passengers departing, walking from the shuttle bus, their feet unseen in the rising evening fog. From somewhere trails a haunting nocturne as a disembodied voice calls out to milling throng to follow dociley as lambs. Some stay a little longer, to indulge in tote-home vanities: XO, Dunhill, Toblerone, Joop. . . . The list is long, as are the queues to gates, some moving the other way, a lot with luggage bowed, a few with only gate cards and their tickets sticking out from jackets' pockets like brazen tongues. Some read the monitors with vapid faces, others doze, babies whimper, many take a last bite at "The Wonders of the World." Again, the disembodied voice seems to intone: "In my Father's house there are many mansions." The angels of cleanliness sweep the leavings from the tomb-cold floor.