Boroughs

Abstract

Should any man despair of life, may he go to the DeliFrance® at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport. Here the menu reads: My name is Chef Marcel. I am pure French, born and bred, from le charming southern hamlet of St Pierre. My papa was a 'boulanger' (that's french for baker), and so was my papa's papa, and his papa's papa. From the table in the transit lounge, see indoor aerotrains whisking away to the advertised terminals A,B,C,D. See the indoor aroboreum, the man studying the golden necklaces on a napkin laid on the cabinet. See the planes, the blue and green indicator lights, the orange lights of the terminal installations. See the reflection of yourself in the window. See that your head is proportionally smaller to your body than that of the Chef Marcel cartoon on the top corner of the menu. You cross your legs, in defiance of the chef. You are esteemed guest at the Concorde Inn. Return to the KLIA and the beautiful air hostesses in peacock cyan, the red bow ties of the distinguished men. You reflect on the twin global achievements of luminescence (the blue, green, orange, white diodes, tubes, bulbs), and of shoe fashion (soles, upper, stitchings, cuts). Standing in line to board, you notice a silverfish crawling over the carpet, and you reflect, while there is time, on the weight of your shoes, the fading of your reflection.