The Moscow airport

had a connection. tried to save some money.

don't save money. not when it sends you to the Moscow airport.

endless hallways, stretching, connecting the terminal sections. you walk around confused. worried that time is ticking. no one guides you, but god. the staff look at you with loathing. food is overpriced and can't be bought with currency. you need to pay the kossacs extra, perhaps. they know my heritage and dream of the better days of sabers and raids. oh the existential pogrom of seeing that the time is neigh, only to see the clock is not ticking.

more contradictory signs, telling you , perhaps the H wing is in the women's room. the entrances guarded by severe stormtroopers. reflecting the frost outside.

the watercoolers shined anticeptically, but the water tasted like lead poisoning.

with luck, or perhaps just as planned, the plane was delayed, and so no worries , we had time to sit by the gate and starve. we found our way, but deep inside we will be forever lost.