T.F.P.

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This place. This horrid place. A weigh station for better destinations or a home. Its design wreaks of morning havoc. Impatience. A fluctuating populace.

Moses parted the water, but here, it never came back to rest. There's a simultaneous joy for what it represents, and a terror for it's cold and barren atmosphere.

Sleepless and sharp. The cold tiled floor as a bed for the night. Passerbys and fellow resters who look still but with minds racing of a soft linen, the end of their journey, a lover's smile. Or simply the wish to be somewhere else rather than this place.

This.

Fucking.

Place.

And as my eyes fall heavy, for a moment, I sleep.

And when I wake, it feels like an eternity, but that bodily drain spells 10 minutes. 10 pointless minutes.

Switch sides.

Another 10 minutes.

Head tilt.

7 Minutes.

Think of somewhere else.

Please

, think of somewhere else.

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Justin Batchelor