In secondary immigration, as I await processing, I sit with people for whom I imagine the experience is less of a novelty. To be blunt, non-white people. Mexican and Arabian people, mostly-I assume, I don't look at their passports; they don't have them, they're behind the desks with the border police, equally trapped and obese, behind the counter, often the same color as the people they're casually harassing. "Who does this notion of nation most suit,” I wonder as I sit there, unable to use my phone. Proper rich people don't encounter these rooms, these borders, these problems. For them the world is as it is when seen from space, without boundary, without limitation, full of fluid possibility and whispering wonder.