Note: This was written on a flight from Athens to New York in April of 1995.

I really don't feel like writing right now, but it's all I can seem to do at this point in time. As the turbulence shakes my pen, I continue to write these meaningless words on this insignificant piece of paper. All around me people go about their business, and that of others, but I just sit here and write in the midst of it all. Camera flashes go off in a seemingly endless succession in the section ahead of us. So? Who cares? The captain has just turned on the fasten seat belt sign. Does it matter? I'm still writing these mysterious glyphs on this sheet of plant fiber. The ink sticks to the paper, my mind wanders. The plane descends. The flight attendants are being obnoxious again. That's nothing new. People go up and down the aisles, not going anywhere. Life/Death cycle continues on its suicide course. Do I care? Friends and strangers, side by side, in a piece of metal hanging in the air without strings, no safety net to catch us. And my pen moves down the page at increasing speed, crowding out the precious blank space of what is not yet written. This one has no purpose, quite unlike the others I have written on this journey. No thought given beforehand, it just became, right here in front of me. People glance at it, look away, don't understand. There's a deeper meaning. There must be. There always is. Isn't there? What is the author saying about life? Did you ask him? Of course not. That would give it meaning. Cards shuffled, music playing, people walking, me writing. Why?

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