Plastic bags gently chase each other, in continuous wind-caused circles, between the building and the large metal boxes on wheels parked side by side and attached to little carts for picking up luggage, which come and go from time to time, while raindrops slap against the glass window I’m staring out of, leaving water balls of themselves, smaller and smaller, as they slide down until nothing is left to leave behind.
Moving to the other side of the room, the gloomy, overcast skies also cover the front of Concourse B, graying the metal and glass structure, making it resemble an old factory needing a shine up.
Inside, above me, a large white ceiling fan with several long fins, quietly whumps around with upturned tips imitating jet wings, going nowhere.
Sighing heavily, I continue roaming around the crowded waiting areas, filled with people wanting to go somewhere, like me.
TR
Prose Me 