Who am I but a travel writer who neither travels nor writes?
Locomotion location spins procreation promotion.
Half a globe away feels like no distance at all because of that magic capsule we sit in for 20 hours.
One discovers a lot about himself whilst travelling.
Sunny sixpence schedule, giant floor-to-ceiling spreadsheets. It's almost as if my mind couldn't fathom standard chord or word progression expression. Unusual sublime slime slithered down my blimp, and I have a gumboot of a dream, swinging around my head, disallowing hedgehog clarity yet engulfing my innermost hopes and strings.
The feeling of standing in line is close to the frustration of defeat.
A chicken sandwich can be the cause of much stress at an airport.
There is a strange world just in between sleep and consciousness, a drowsy, dreamy, somewhat painful plane, where reality struggles against uncontrolled fantasy. One sometimes sees and hears, yet rational decision making is missing.
Convenience means waste.
The mind will remember certain threads of thought if you actively try to make a note of it at the time. Although, forgetting is unforgiving, and we'll never know what we forget.
Switch trickery, flickering lights.
Waking up at 3am is much like doing so at 4am or 5am, but any earlier is closer to not having slept at all.
What shall I dream about tonight?
We all expect a tomorrow, do we not?
When one feels loved, he is invincible.
Love is conversation, a milkshake serenade.
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