Spaceport pop music. You’ve become unconsciously locked into the sequences of hooks and loanwords of the songs that catch in the aisles of the duty free sprawls that establish themselves around the hub-clusters of airlocks.
Waking with yr face flattened by artificial upholsteries. Regular strata from the printer algorithm that made them emerge on yr cheeks, redden, and then fade into air-conditioned tan. The departure boards are loaded with character sets from nineteen local dialects. You can recognise yr destination in three of them but the name itself resembles that of another shore a couple of dozen parsecs in the wrong direction.
After a sink wash while chewing on a dentifrice you satisfy yrself that the flight won’t arrive for another day at least; that is, if you’ve correctly understood the calendar regimes outlined on the array. There are new journals in a dialect allied to yr own arriving today. New in that they have arrived on a freighter that has been thirty years in the vacuum. Thirty years relative to what is a moot question that the douanier are currently negotiating with the shareholders.
Spaceport pop music. You sing along to syllables you don’t understand, although you recognise the hooks, or the hooks they’ve been borrowed from. Although you are not entirely certain that you can differentiate between the music, the news headlines and the stock market download data.
This update was expanded out into a little book called Cafe Nonstop.