It is a Monday morning again and I'm sitting in a train that is running six hours late. It is a different route and a different direction altogether, but you know where to be. There shall be a station, and there shall be the grass, and the dust, and the world taking its siesta, and I shall wait. Soon I shall get a mobile, but for now it must be this haphazard planning, this sudden running away, this hurried consent to meeting at remote places. I shall tell you about how the countryside looks from a railway window, and you shall agree to come.
And then we shall walk, like we always do, towards the train.
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