My waiting is graceful. I hope that good fortune will come of this strangeness. There is an elusive subtlety in waiting that recedes in spaces measured by speed. Pure speed is a measure, a fetish, an excess. Any moment spent idle is waiting.
Any moment spent waiting is idle, lost momentum, a sign of slowness.
We apologise for being late, for making others wait. This is bad manners - 'good manners cost nothing' you know. The time spent waiting is an eternity. We languish in these small eternities. But I fear that waiting will be extinguished by the pursuit of pure speed, flat and undiscerning.