A week at the airport - Alain De Botton
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The sky was a chemical orange colour, observing the final hours of the fragile curfew it had been keeping ever since it had swallowed up the last of the previous evening's Asia-bound flights. Jutting from the side of the terminal was the disembodied tail of a British Airways A312, anticipating another imminent odyssey in the merciless cold of the lower stratosphere.
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