Departure Three or four colours paint a wet morning aboard the commuter train, dark green for lush mountains, dark blue for shadows that hang beneath grey clouds and shiny brown slippery clay roof tiles. The rain has let up after nearly two days. In a sky more often ablaze and unnoticed, inexhaustible clouds, graceful, frenzied, fly onward. The streets, cars, bridges, buildings, all is clean and waking to a soft grey morning as though cement could bloom like an hydrangea. We are now travelling at 285 km/h, a steel serpent slipping through the mountains. Salary men seemingly dressed as always for their own funeral, dark suit, white shirt, ordinary, inoffensive ties read the papers. Th landscape takes on a childish appearance. The houses are made of matchboxes, the trees made of moss, telephone poles and
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