Number 1

She looks lonely. She sits on an uncomfortable F. L. Wright inspired instrument of torture; slumps, pressing her exhaustion into the supporting pillar. She clutches a book in one hand, and in another, an edge of a blanket. She is tired, the sleep in her eyes, easily apparent. It is early, a time when the morning can easily be night, a terrifying moment inspiring nausea of chronic overabundance.
Behind her a window, reflecting the oppressive, circular, mixed temperature indoor lights. Streaks of dark Outside, shyly wax through ; Emergency Flashing LEDs reflecting off her wrinkled clothes, like some weird form of techno varicella.

She moves her body in a languid, tired asymmetry, a sort of imperfect vibration. Her thoughts collect around her, hot and wavy like air of a boiling day.
Inside the AC quietly hums along. She places her bare feet on her suitcase.
A broken callus loudly at her left heel, a red circle of exposed meat, inside, flesh; gilded edges of skin, golden-dead skin around a scarlet wound.

A gasp, we expect truth, the torrent of thoughts; "Escape! from her painful fenestration."

Collective thoughts scream, a chorus of pain.
The wound demurely closes on itself, like a black mirror, a self satisfied sheen of of thick liquid, anticipatory dew of plasma. Moist and raw, like a pomegranate.

The P.A system expands in painful feedback.
Wailing of old technology, of high resistance gives in to a defeated sleepless voice.
An important message, it begins with an apology.
With artificiality -, "This, Ladies and Gentlemen is neither due to a failing infrastructure nor to expensive oil; Forget impending doom and disaster, Forget your paranoia , It is not the end of the world" it states, "But simply human error". A pause, allowed for human comprehension.
A nod of empathy ripples through the room.
She stirs uncomfortably. She prefers the dreamy existence in between. She prefers between the waves.
"The 1st Ambassador has overslept!," they whisper , "No, no, they are not paying attention, It's the 1st Captain," she thinks." "He captains the monocoque shell, sends it through the air."
"He contains the thirst for flight, 10,000 meters far above the earth, above the clouds, where they become pillows, and fill the eyes with plump white.
"No matter" she states through teeth covered by limp lips,
"Processed oxygen will take care of these thoughts."
She elevates her body. She feels modular. Elements of body parts together, connected as she has never felt them before. Muscles acting as teeth, hair as feet, her open callus as an eye, her nails as ears; all connected, haphazardly, like the electronic cables behind a desk, unlabeled , hopefully plugged in, buzzing at 60HZ, all for, of movement and reason.
She grabs her bag and she feels the weight of her monstrosity; could she check this baggage in?
Her mismatched parts, an experiment of internal friction. The speaker promises a prompt departure from Gate 32.

To be continued...