The boarding announcement rang, and I was searching among the shelves for the last box of gum. The stains on the bumper spelled out half a musical scale. At this moment, I suddenly understood the "Nomad" she often hums - those Morse code-like beats. It turned out that the frost in the convenience store freezer grows by 1.2 Millimeters every year, that the automatic door will forget to say "Welcome" after opening and closing 40,000 times, and that the red laser of the scanner gun can cut through the golden candy in 1997.
Her old schoolbag hangs in the staff locker room, and the book "Swarming" inside is open to page 80. Pencil notes blurred by coffee stains suddenly became clear:
"People come in droves and leave in a hurry
Just scattered film
Constantly exposed in memory"
Intention: I don't know if anyone will like it