Tradition and modernism. The neighbouring cafes break open constructed travels. I enter the time zone of a new place, waiting for the baggage to bring itself to me.
I step listlessly along the Transmap exit, my feet scattering around the edges in undefined polarity.
My journey only beginning, with the random isoplast injected deep within my cranium, the vocal siren song of the locator prizing me with its cunning. I am bunted by the edge of the luggage, it makes a squealing noise, looking for affection.
I take its handhold, and squeeze gently. The purrs are delicious. Togo’s whistling french crowd embraces me, passes me, nods toawrds the flaky skin in my hair, holding out its hand in republican glare, as I enter:
I tap the node:input/destination – home.
Yet the story continues without me, for I know she was waiting there for the return of a warm, supple body in the ngiht. Waiting for the rememberance, and waiting for time to stand still just a moment.
My work done, the patterns engaged. Moving in the void between places I trip, stumble, fall to my feet – and for a moment, there was no placement, no desire until the escape of atomic values across the diamter of fabric.
The translip eats away at the serial dependancies, and for the first time, i wonder where I am bound, why I am pulled back.
I begin to think, that there has been an accident.
The co-ordinates shift again….
I breath the full air of another place – Togo far behind.