Thursday pm; singular.

The indicator on the bus is stable; no attack. The cardiac pulse without variation; without theme. Traveling higher into the blanket of air; another sonumbulance placed upon minds who wait to wake up dead. Take me away.

Leaving the decapitated, dying and dead is my only reason. The rest is a restricting plague lesion. A passionless poison engineering. Spores invade everywhere and it becomes a mad dash to find stillness. Those who can be mindful when all is insane around them are enlightened indeed.

Fucking hen and stag parties. Leeds have you nothing left inside the mind except this struggle with the damned and undead. All noise. Where is the chapel of ease Airside? Give me Truth where I can see, hear and sense distance.

It is so loud that I must swear, pack away my muesli and find another area further from the violent death.

The concentrated forces at work in the departure areas of an airport rip the very fabric of being apart. Banging drums, cheering sluts (you hope to marry this?) and some child screaming sweet success, every second, on air hockey. It is a matter of life or death that puts all these impossibly unrealistic hurdles across the route away. Hercules would've found this challenge beyond his 12th, retired with his mind zapped. Multi faith prayer room. Truthfully there is a way. I am. Alone.