Too tired to think deliberately. I walked out into the cold morning beyond the terminal – out to a valet car park and back. Wrong level for trees. Failing to walk down the stairs. Recognising that we are stuck here all day, taking turns minding our baggage at a cafe area. Surprised they even allow us to sit here – that they don’t shoo us away to make space for paying customers. Oh well, here we are. Travel sucks. Fucked up travel sucks. I dream about travel so often. Travel is a time to begin writing. But why precisely? Why is this time any more significant than any other time? Why is it more conducive to observation and reflection? And could it be that this reflection is necessarily shallow in that I can only recognise this time for writing? In any case, the superficiality of this impulse to write within the midst of travel must be acknowledged before anything else is possible. This is a meditation upon my own limitations, upon the conditions for this writing itself – in 2016, a privileged moment perhaps, when travel and travelogues are still possible.