My current job has introduced me to the existence of a parallel world. A world in which the word “premium” statistically occurs more than in ours. A world in which time is bent in such a way that it slows down or speeds up exactly opposing your needs. The world can be entered through magical gates operated by a sect of male mystics, clad in blue suits, with the sole holy mission to closely inspect you and what you carry.
It is a world which seems to be designed to make you feel only slightly ill at ease. The seats in this world are mostly comfortable. The world is ominously named “terminal”, and one is supposed to leave it through flexible tunnels, that end in oblong metal tubes.
The gates to these tunnels are controlled by another sect, this one mostly consisting of women, wearing knee long dresses and shawls. The main interest of this sect is matching up numbers from slips of paper people carry to those in a magical machine, but it is very friendly about it.
The woman so elegantly passing in front of my camera, struggling with one of those strange time bends just discovered up front that the number on her slip of paper would match up at another gate.
I hope she made it out of the terminal world.