Stansted — 06-10 Lemming Time
An observation
Beat’s popping — the place is rocking — The Happy Face has decamped to Joe’s Juice!
Bleary-eyed staff ladle protein shakes, green matcha smoothies, specialty coffee down the open maws of sleep-deprived adventures.
No one hears their name called over the din of the industrial liquidizer and incessant thump trance jump — yet all find a smashed avocado or porridge bowl — groping off towards a dark corner to breakfast — it could be the last…
Red-eye prop — background blurred — we could be in any Refugee Holding Facility; the sticky floor running with spilled effluent, discarded detritus of life on the move crowding the tables; under a neon light, people wearing everything they own to avoid the baggage fee, slump sick — purple sockets, wan skin, and the stupefied gaze into empty space that is the mark of confusion and dislocation.
And the beat thrums on. An ancient, incessant, torture denying rest, repose. To enter Joe’s is to enter a new hell — some fresh, exhortation to dance when you cannot stand — to spend when you cannot think. They kill horses, don’t they?
So many people. So many spilling — spooling into every space. People with hats, bags, possessions, gifts. People with buckets of coffee, food for the duration, bee-like headphones with…
