Nobody loves an airport. It's one of those necessary evils of the modern world, a glorified bus terminal transporting folks from one place to another. Too bright, too filled with small children and cranky bureaucrats that would doubtless rather be elsewhere.
The desert isn't a bad place to be. Unless you run out of water, of course. Then it's a very bad place to be, although only for a little while. Eventually you won't even notice the heat. Death is funny that way.
Meanwhile, planes might fly overhead. People could be sleeping or watching a crappy movie. There's a guy in row 14 drinking crappy vodka.
Some days everything is a struggle and you wish you were better at life. On the bright side, if you're not in the desert without water or in an airport, how bad can it be?
But such idle thoughts are small consolation when you're spinning in place, waiting for something more to come your way. Where are you trying to go? Do you even know? Do you care? Do you dare shoot for the moon in the hope of at least landing softly somewhere when you miss?
Or maybe you're the kind that prefers to go out in a blaze of glory, like a marshmallow held too long over the flame. Sure, it's a waste of perfectly good artificial foodstuff, but whew, look at it burn!
Still, there is much to do in a day. In a way it's not as bad as if you'd had less to do, had two left shoes or a pocketful of oxtail stew.
Words, though, are another story. They could tell a story if arranged properly. Too often they don't cooperate and remain a jumbled mess, coagulating like crappy vodka.
Does vodka even coagulate? Do marshmallows? Fly away already.