Ache, trauma of train-travel, weakness from hunger (money short). Oaks so huge they dwarf my desire as I rattle & sway past the high, massy bulks of their leafage. The Pontic flood-plains consume me, swallowing my want in a slow, complex arithmetic of kilometers and hours. Where will this end, whom will I meet in what noisy terminus in the heart of what dirty mercantile city? I'm capable of forgetting, here, in this chaos of sense, while my subtle-body, outstripped and struggling to catch up & recombine, races desperately, bewilderedly, not quickly enough, along the silver double-ribbon of rail behind.