The flat, black landscape of Hungary blared at me in vibrant stillness as Jitka slept, and I stood next to the open window accompanied by Lawrence's RA podcast (one of my deep house faves whose company on my travels last summer inspired nenahýbejte se z oken), as our decaying rychlík glided around the neverending plains, with the lights of Budapest still glaring at me 100 kilometers distant, and the faraway streetlights from the parallel motorway just seeming to stay as still as the many visible stars, like a backdrop to a SNES game. Momentarily we seemed to be stopping as the sooty Rothko painting was marred by a house or factory, a level crossing, a buzzing network of sidings and having cleared these, we sped up again, hurtling towards the Serbian border at the usual speed
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