interstitial space again

5:45am eastern time, homeward bound. My circadian rhythms are displeased with me, I can tell by the dull ache at the back of my neck and the unfocused haze that passes for awareness. Sensemaking apparatus tries to lock onto the familiar sounds of baggage wheels on tile floor as flight crew swings past, that lingering and distinct odor, melange of greasy pizza, sour sweat and Jet A, that whispers 'airport' at the periphery of consciousness. Time to go.

O Canada, land of maple and moose, so long, eh?