“I never travel without my diary; one should always have something sensational to read on the train.”

Trains were more dangerous in those days. Not that there were more accidents – in fact there were far fewer. What was in danger was rather a body's sense of its own limits; its simple, unproblematic position within time and space. For every train-car that clacked its wheels over the seams that punctuated the rails just across from the grassy, trashy spot outside Athens where I used to loiter aspiringly near the crouching knots of gypsies, my heart had an ache. For every ache my heart had, ten butterfly worms complied with their ancient tendency and took on powdery wings.