Terminal two. Slipstream. A stream of arrivals; anticipations; reunifications, anxieties.
Train station but on a grander scale, amplified and elongated. Hours not minutes spent waiting. Years not weeks spent aching.
A crazy world where the corners are eight hours apart but we don't see each other for decades.
Centuries pass and we forget we were ever there, lost in an embrace
that swallows us into time.
Disposable Evidence: Temporary fragments of the everyday.
Subscribe at https://www.exmosis.net/disposable_evidence