Really, it's just an excuse to describe anchor punch after anchor punch to my frangible heart. There's just something about an aimlessly drifting passport that gets my tea kettle whistling.

 

These sylphs all have one thing in common. They're all encountered on the road. In some transitory non-space between nowhere and everywhere. Layovers, mid-itinerary, bus stations. You name it. If time slows and it's a tabernacle where tedium flourishes, I'm probably interviewing you.

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Another common denominator is that they are all somewhat slightly exquisite. No one more than the other. They all adeptly play mancala with men's hearts.