þriðjudagur, maí 01, 2007


The air hangs on you when it's like this, like someone's put a steaming towel over you. You're in first class, it's been a long flight, some well-meaning flugfreyja has dropped a little roll of terrycloth into your hand using a pair of tongs. You feel the landing gear being deployed. The local time is summer. You may wish to adjust your watch.

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