From “A supposedly fun thing I’ll never do again.”

Righ now it’s Saturday 18 March, and I’m sitting in the extremely full cofee shop of the Fort Lauderdale Airport, killing the four hours between when I had to be off the cruise ship and when my flight to Chicago leaves by trying to summon up a kind of hypnotic sensuous collage of all the stuff I’ve seen and heard and done as a result of the journalistic assignment just ended.

David Foster Wallace