There is no Prana in the Atlanta airport. The air tastes scorched and acrid, circulating just enough O2 to maintain a dwindling life force. The food, served by Somalis, Kurds,and Malaysians does not look like the food from their homelands or mine, and watch out for the chicken salad.
I ride the escalator down to the shuttle under a shower of Ah-Choo!ing snotty babies and sniffling, Scotch-eyed businessmen smearing H1N1 and a family reunion of Rhino virus strains along the sticky handrails.
Maybe a Cinnabon will make it all better?