Midgard by Hot Air Balloon

Waiting in the long, elliptical, spotless station. Destination: home. Plans to sleep, but I am already in a dream.

Faces made of plastic and bodies of stainless steel clamber up from the entrance. Domes of sparkling enamel glisten in the perpetual twilight above the stratocumulus clouds, milky white with shadows of blue and black, hints of the camouflaged cityscape submerged beneath the wispy waves.

#FFFFFF. Every surface reflects the others, themselves reflecting the soft celestial spotlight high above. A mosaic of funhouse mirrors made useless by the opacity of the endless white paneling. Subtle glimpses of mechanical monstrosities prevail over the dull, eggshell finish.

Every bench, every rail, every revolving door and hovering security drone devoid of color. A whitewashed landscape is illuminated in all directions, with minute hints of faded orange staining the cloud tops far beyond the tallest spires, betraying a world lost to the hidden, glassy pavement below and the starscrapers above.

Exposed corridors blending into a soft white fuzz. Blank expressions and jerky movements.

At the platform edge sits a line of ever-so-faint beige. Do not stand here. Danger, danger. A reminder of futility.

Flakes of white peel from the frictionless facade, imperceptible signs of decay, indicators of our impermanence running amok. Leaky ceiling pipes. Janitors with broken actuators and buggy programming.

And in this place, beyond pain, beyond hope, well beyond the realm of carnal concerns, I wait without purpose on spindly legs for a vessel going nowhere, with hazy recollections of a life unlived, while others disappear into the fluorescent mist and the encroaching chaos promises to return again someday.

When the flesh is weak we are given eyes, but can we still see?

Shuttle leaves at 8:30. Even if I dared to dream, all my dreams are gone from me.