Fingerprints

I am reminded of Stockton's words today, as I feel imprisoned and landlocked. As we work in the airport, he says, our fingerprints must have spread across the world like a virus. Our DNA, contained within those fingerprints, is reaching locations far and wide - every country in the world could possibly contain evidence of our existence. But this is anti-fame; we are travelling in the most insidious nature of the word. Our bodies, skin or sweat infiltrate borders with perfect subterfuge; our persons are crawling with tiny spies waiting to be dispatched on a mission. Like the chaos of the Butterfly, a sniffle wiped away with the back of a hand could manifest itself as a full blown pandemic if it so happens to land in a country with limited healthcare. It's not just our fingerprints, but also those of the cabin crew, the throwers, the pilots, the perfume squirters, the Burger King flippers, the toilet scrubbers and on. Manchester Airport is a DNA teleportation device, just as every airport in the world is. As a species, we human beings are mingling in a way that would make Bernard Manning spin in his freshly dug grave.

Stockton claims is dreams are tiny electrical impulses being sent back to his brain by his roaming DNA. He claims to dream of far away lands and places that he has never seen. I have yet to have this sensation, but every time I see a plane fly overhead, I wonder how much of me is leaving. I worry that each piece of DNA that is sent away from the body diminishes the whole, spreading the butter of my soul over a wider piece of muffin. The airport is changing us for good or ill. At least I still hope I'll have the dreams...