Living on EPT

Woke up at a quarter to four in the morning to make my flight back to Terminus. I've been on Espionage Peoples Time ever since. EPT can be defined as when the constant shift of distances renders the hour-minute orbit of the clock obsolete, allowing life to be measured instead by the rush-race of unfolding drop-off points, check-in counters, lackadaisical security patrols, efficiently numbered terminals, shots of shuttle rides down one sterile catacomb to the next, three story escalator trips, expensive cab rides and throughout it all the serotonin deprivation lending every detail I focus on with either an etheral haze or a bottled clarity.
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