At the Copenhagen airport, I saw a kid. She must have been about five years old. Pigtails that flew back and fourth as she skipped along the worn parquet floor of terminal 1. The body language of someone without a care in the world. Red riding hood on her way to grandma. Skipping along. But on her face a stern look. Pursed lips and furrowed brow. She looked about ready to kick someone's teeth in. She was gleefully skipping along but looking at her surroundings with the grumpiest stare. Like she wanted to tell the world "yeah, I'm skipping! I like skipping. But skipping is serious. I skip to survive. Each of my cheery skips is a step away from the edge. Or maybe towards it. I don't know. All I know is that you should get out of my way, or skip along with me."
Erik Bergérus, 2014-04-22