The morning light enters this octagonal chamber.
The light is thin, grey, fragile.
It comes and goes.
Now it’s gone.
A voice echoes around the chamber.
A Tunisian speaking French.
She’s on the speaker system and it’s hard to hear her words.
The sound echoes around these walls, confusing each other,
confusing the waiting passengers.
Outside, the planes are standing like grey, tubular starfish.
Lines are everywhere; straight, angled lines.
Out beyond the chamber, this world we created,
there are no straight lines.
harryjohnstone 