Flying out of Bangkok

Flying out of Bangkok; the plane slowly gathering speed across the runway. And there are lights across the tarmack, tiny rows of red and blue, and green a little farther up. In the distance, there is the glittering yellow flicker of a city awakening, stretching its great dirty arms and yawning broadly, looking up to greet the pitch black grin of eight o'clock at night. I am leaving Bangkok now, Floyd is playing in my ears (Wish you were here), the song of so many lonely morning coffees and broken moments of forced nostalgia. There are surely hundreds of us here on this souped-up white machine, beginning trips and ending them, running away and running home. There are thousands of us in planes right now, pinned up pricks of light along the sky. We are going places - or we think we are. We are meeting people. Everywhere we go we are all moving the same: touching faces, touching hands, touching more.