Organic substance of an unspecified origin

I sit in a giant glass kidney that filters people at night. Through me, through the stinge body, strangers are moving through the timetable: flights to sunny cities whose names sound like drug names, and back, to the Gray East. Everything is polished to a sterile shine - a floor that reflects tired faces, rows of metal chairs, stiffening in the eternal waiting posture. The weather is recycled, odorless, deprived of lungs any memory of a real wind or rain.

fatigue. Not the one that is washed away by sleep. This is different. It is deposited in the blood as severe, toxic, and every heartburn only brings it evenly throughout the body. I observe scenes with mechanical accuracy: tears to say goodbye to the security check gate; hysterical laughter of a child, bouncing to high ceilings; A man tensely looking at the information board, as if there were answers of the meaning of his life. I see the seams connecting these puppets, I see a script faded from infinity. No drama, just features. Departure. Arrival.

It makes no sense to move. I'm just a body in a chair, a ticket, waiting for it to be called a metal voice from the speaker. That voice is a mechanical lullaby of meaninglessness, repeating the same buckets of delays and last invitations. I could just stay here. To become part of this terminal, to blend in with the plastic of the chair, to observe the way planes rise and descend - those big, clumsy birds, carrying hope and frustration. Without any difference. All that weight would dissolve in sterile lighting.

Then the loudspeakers are heard. And my last name, distorted unrecognizably, is shaken into a foreign, meaningless syllable. Request to access the third box. I get up. Heavy, lead apathy cloak is a behind. I come to. The woman's uniform does not look into the eye. She tap with her finger in the monitor. He says that the organic matter of unclear origin is in my registered luggage. Need to be checked.

I stand and look at her. To the point in the space where it should be. And suddenly I understand. There's grandmother's apple cheese. Thoroughly wrapped in baking paper. That existential fatigue, the magnificent, all -encompassing apathy, that blending with the emptiness of the universe. All this has just lost the fight against the piece dried apples.