Airport stop

You have arrived.
Last stop, the airport.
An end in itself, no days but constant time, a human mind ticking at once.
One moment thought by all, an invisible democracy, the forgotten treasure of French poets of the 50s, the forgotten treasure of Ahrend, but one tragically modern thought - lost in the ticking of each minute, the ticking of a cloud that would soon engulf even me.
For each announcement echoes gently the flight of my neighbour, whose patience I have shared, whose voice sung to my waiting, whose life I have imagined, thin.
The rays of light on people's cheeks let out a blush of childhood, a soft touch of innocent paint.
The day we drew our first sun. The day he raised his first son.
World of seasons, seasons for travel, travel for light, light for illumination.
The battery of my neighbour has died out, he has lost his surface, I am left queuing for my own loss.

You cannot loose the sun

The dreams I have up there, while the Iron bird is humming, are all surfaced by recollections, those - as usual - fortune-telling dreams that I carry around in my thoughts for the fun of words and the fondness I have for the child in me who keeps imagining the future.
Full of faces free of freedom, these imagined futures remain sunken in the feats of my eyes.