Who uses these things, these gadgets?
Why am I reading this magazine?
I brought books with me, and my phone has books on it. "Tales of the Alhambra" and stuff by the last Booker short list. I'm reading this stupid, silly magazine. Something about Ashley Judd, and style. I spent most of the last month wearing a tent for my everyday clothing, and I'm using up part of my life to read about style.
Kentucky, though.
What country am I over? Islamabad to London, probably . . . so, wide berth south of China and Russia. Are we over Iran? Do they allow that? I should know this. I'm a journalist.
What journalist has done what I'm doing? But they have insurance. They write up the combat in the trenches in front of zoning boards, and here I am just leaving a place where angry is a grenade, but happy means shooting your rounds up into the air.
This is really an old magazine. My seat mate on the aisle has a . . . right, slowly edge it out, and . . . same as mine. Of course. It slides back into place.
Tray table down, tablet out. What's going on, to . . . that's not good. Plus Israel. Too many countries. The world just needs mine, and about a third less of the rest. Plus we have some meteorological factors. What if I land and . . . no. We'll get there late, and I have to go right into the clubhouse.
Sleep. Too little, too much, nod, doze . . .
Light outside the cabin windows, nothing but clouds beneath.
I guess I'll know where I end up when the money for engineering and construction dries up. For now, let's build. Let's write the story, let's go as many stories up as we can. The foundations are strong.
Again sleep.
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