The rush hour continues longer than I expected. We are sitting in the long line, leading nowhere. From the hectic Helsinki afternoon I flew to relaxing atmosphere of southern comfort. No, the cold wind didn’t make the decision to buy the tickets easier on Sunday.
Through the hidden bushes my mind aches to hear the unfinished symphony of peaceful nature. But the black smoke keeps on rising in the air, hiding the everlasting southern sun somewhere beneath. I’m wandering back and forth, looking at the lane where dozens of trucks keeps on slowing down, and where tens of cars tend to find their way to front of the queue.
I am creep. I am weirdo. I don’t belong here. The Radiohead is trying to reveal the truth. My eyesight is blurring, finding its way to change to black and white mode. The night has become, the colors has been fade away. But I belong here.