An international dome for the lost and found

6 days before Christmas and LAX have never seen busier days. Layed over; fucked over. I anxiously wait to descend home to good ol' Funky Town, Tx. 9 hours passed and still enough energy to step out for a smooth burning Parliament Light. Through security I find myself happily seated on a 30 step staircase designated for smoker's paradise. The cold breeze has prevented most nicotine lovers from inhaling their relaxing cigs, but not for me... for I have my black hooded FIDM sweatshirt on, and that will do me just fine. I flip up my hood and slip a white cancer stick between my lips. As I search for my fluid flame a police officer approaches the steps. In traditional cap and coat and every step higher, the pig finds interest in my stale but eager face. I grasp my lighter when his face is parallel to mine. He hasn't taken his eyes off of me. I politely speak "hello" through my locked cancer stick grasping lips. I glare into his cold stern face until I defeat him in our childish contest. Continuing with my process, I flick my Bic and he walks off without a word. In this moment I had a change of mind, layed over doesn't mean fucked over... I love the god damn airport; a place for everyone from anywhere; an international dome for the lost and found. 

I spot a FIDM student down below and seriously consider bursting into cheers, but on second thought... I'm just not that crazy...