Another airport. I feel like my handwriting changes a little every time I come to one of these, but there's always more to say. I participated in a life-saving game of "telephone" on the flight here to Denver. I highly recommend telling a complete stranger to pass along information to another complete stranger.

That's actually the second time I've played anonymous "telephone" in my life.

(Liberating.)

I'm roughly 6'6" in these shoes. I know, a tad unnecessary, but I didn't feel apologetic, today, about being so tall. I'm not sorry that I take up a lot of space right now.

(Also liberating: making a giant taller with big shoes.)

I'm so lucky to have this seat. I'm facing away from the foodcourt behind a bar of sorts. It feels like the front row of something important. The view is a crossing of four paths, flooded with heavily baggaged travelers, all with what seems to be the same, black, tiny-wheeled suitcase. (Even I have one.)

And everyone seems so happy: It's always nice to have a smile reciprocated. But when I'm in a bad mood, the airport seems glum. I project a bit, yeah? Regardless, Denver is bright today.

(Third liberation: smiling at strangers.)

How about the kid with the drab flannel shirt with the single scoop vanilla ice cream? He put his bag up on the bar here to put some small thing in it. Then he picked the bag up and kept walking, removing the spoon in his mouth with his newly freed hand.

I wonder if the girl in the frumpy track suit knows how beautiful she is. (Part of me hopes she doesn't.)

The redhead with the green plastic glasses, the tiny diamond nosering, and the green floral shirt and raspberry shoes (her favorite color is green, I'm sure), she smelled like expensive perfume as she walked by.

Suddenly, I feel like I've misunderstood it, having been shortsighted. They're all thinking right now and have someone to hug soon. (I hope.) And I swear the voice overhead (strangely muffled by it's own, layered echo) just said "mo cusha," my blood...

(4th liberation: sitting without food in the middle of a crowded foodcourt, writing about people sitting right next to you):

I like the redhead. (That voice overhead said it again. Mo cusha...)