The Airportline: Observations

Its Sunday but no one is resting. People are out, I was out, biking through the crowds. With music loud in my ears. Going past yellow bikes, past red ones, past the boutiques on Negen Straatjes where the yuppies sip their coffee. I pass them all by, I am going to the library, to the fifth floor, to a chair. I sit with my computer, read, edit, my document turns red, turns confusing, I move, shift location. I read and sometimes I like it, get proud, and then I get angry, wounder what I was thinking. Wounder what I was meaning. How can I not understand my own arguments? My thesis period is nearing its end and my head is filled with interviews, with theoretical ideas that needs connection. I am trying to pull a red thread through it all, make it coherent, tight, understandable, relevant. I bike back and keep writing, and some Dutch idiot is trying to sue me for crashing into his car and a lawyer is sending letters to Sweden and I wounder, where did all the idiots come from? Then I put on Sebastien Tellier and take a deep: Breath. Sunday, and resting is further away than my heart.