All for sale
Yulia Radkevich

Announcements of trains that aren’t mine echo around me, blending with the clatter of suitcases, the ringtone of a “Boomer” on an old phone, and conversations about tricky crossword clues. I put on my headphones and sigh—once again, I’ve arrived a couple of hours early, condemning myself to sit among strangers on uncomfortable wooden chairs.

This sense of waiting seems sharpest during travel. When there’s nothing for the eye to latch onto to speed up sluggish time, a vending machine appears—a television, an attraction, and an entertainment hub all in one. Its coffee distracts from boredom, slightly burning my fingers, while the snacks seem sweeter than usual.

But what if, instead of the familiar chocolates and sodas, there were crystal objects inside? A suspended possibility of purchase—with no result, no consumption. Any attempt to realize this desire would inevitably cause damage, canceling out the very thing that was desired.

Can a purchase truly fulfill a desire? Or is it merely an ornament to situational waiting—a refusal to experience boredom?