The floor moves, but I’m not walking. I’ve arrived somewhere I didn’t leave. Three clocks on the wall none of them are right. They tick in different languages and all of them are wrong. My spine folds into another hour my tongue tastes aluminum and waiting. There’s a sun above the clouds but I’m always under them. I blink and it's night again. My skin is dry but I’m sweating memories I never made. I don’t remember who I am until I forget where I’m going. The lady on the speaker says “now boarding” but the gate's been closed for years. I dream of walking but the floor is made of schedules. I try to speak but it comes out in boarding passes. I sleep but my body keeps flying. They keep feeding me plastic food and asking if I’m okay. I said yes but the word burned on the way out. Someone beside me is snoring in Morse code maybe they know what time it is. Jet lag isn’t a feeling. It’s a place. I live there now. It doesn’t need a passport. It just takes your hours. And gives you none. [Solo]
