I want to sleep in your lungs and breathe your blood

Well, well, well. It appears I suddenly have infinite amounts of time to kill for the first time in forever. This will be nice for a day or so, and then I will escape to Iowa before the boredom sets in. Every time I get on an airplane I feel like it's a movie or short film or something. I find myself wanting to know everybody's backstories. Perhaps listening to mournful music is partly to blame for these daydreams. I certainly don't want to talk to them to find out about them, I just want to already know about them, or maybe read it somewhere. Most of the time a good portion of them do not appear to be people I want to associate with. Especially the ones next to me, like tonight's specimen. A nervous wreck of a young girl, desperate looking. Prissy and panicky and might have been almost attractive if she didn't look so sad and stupid. My large headphones didn't completely protect me because she employed the strategy of poking me in the arm from time to time, which signaled that I was supposed to listen to her. Badly dyed hair, ridiculous shoes whose designers seemed to have forgotten about those pesky things called toes, fur-hooded coat. Do other people notice people like this? Do I exist in somebody's blog somewhere, my every quality deconstructed, and rash assumptions attributed? I hope so.