Strong? No, not me.
Pokey-holey; this façade.
Like cardboard. Edgy.
Do not touch.
From the formal quiet of the 34th floor meeting room, the sea stretches to a misty distance, an uneasy sheet shimmering with serene pools and rivers of quiet, past which are lands inhabitated by souls. And the foyer at the Gateway holds an invisible cloud, like a second skin, of all the chaos that once transpired. And Dilli‘s Terminal 3 is fine, only its in the wrong country. And so on.
Somewhere, amidst this schizoid existence, the mind registers.