The things one thinks. The way the bathrobe hangs on the back of the bedroom door. The hiss of the fan and the tiny waves of air in the darkness of a Sunday afternoon. The tiny snores of someone next to you who has no idea you're in your own Wake World.
The thoughts that you'll be thinking at 37,000 feet in an aluminum tube: that all you ever want is to be here, that this moment should be preserved in amber for all time. This little sanctuary; call it what you will. For some it will be a freeway underpass with a bottle of Colt 45, for others, a windswept desert with three crying children, but for me, it's right here, right now.
Right here, right now.
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