Airports has this thing about them. Polished surfaces with polished people in. It’s own little world of rules and purchases. No death, no wrinkles. The smell of parfume only beautifulwomen wear. Perfectly temperatured take away coffee you don’t burn you toung on with perfectly fitted lids so you don’t spill on our stainfree clothes. I swear, the smell of immortalness and success so tangible you just almost start to believe it’s real. That if you just stay here a little bit longer you’ll become a polished and shiny person too, you’ll become immortal. Than I look down at my shoes and come back to reality. One day I will die. But today I feel increadibly alieve and well, with my perfectly temperatured latte at Budapest airport.
Helloo sweden, I’m coming back for a little while!