þriðjudagur, maí 01, 2007
flug
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.
Gerast áskrifandi að:
Birta ummæli (Atom)
Engin ummæli:
Skrifa ummæli