The Rapid Rapid wrong: slide, slide, rail, land, rocks, houses, everything passes and vanishes, does not miss a moment. Around him is a day that is waking up, but the fast does not stop, it stops, run, run, run away. Constant speed, hurtling endlessly, running without pause, run away from the previous station, a few curves, straight lines, flattened to the ground escapes not to feel the wind that blows against, run, run, run away. Machines such as mad rats, lanes of the roads near the track pants to his side to keep up the pace, but the quick run, run, run away.
seven o'clock in the morning, the train is quite full of fillers in a hurry to the station in the pressure of the bags through the doors, the chaos of late, the race against time to jump in and do not stay on foot in the second class coach there is some empty space, occupied by promptly hand luggage of other passengers.
somewhere else remains free, in the second class coach. The train left exactly at 6:43, with exactly ten minutes late.
now runs. Run away. Escapes.
She plays with a ring on his finger, slowly. Look out the window-glass, streaked with obscene-written, to his left, following the peaceful residue of dreams the night before, now hopelessly dull and crumbling, their fragments flying out the window, sucked from the air vortex. The circle of silver, smooth, screw on the knuckles, and goes back down, but it never takes off.
her gaze is directed away, where the slow indoor is equal to that of the fast from the mountains just visible in the mist of the morning, huge boulders that flow with the serenity of old age and the wisdom of real life. With the rapid escape, the landscape is the same for miles, follows him from a distance in a menacing grimace. In the middle, between the interior of the train and the distant landscape, things creep away in a split second: the houses, trees, people, animals, fields, so small and young side of the mountains, they follow the train whizzing run away with him, they vanish as fast as human vanity. The distant landscape and balance resists, accompanying the traveler for miles. The land remains, the distance is not reached ever: one follows for an infinite time, but is far away, and stays away. Then at some point-and-a moment you are there, and it is finally near, and then he disappeared, the window of the fast running constantly.
Lazily a passenger's hand passes over a page, following the words listlessly. The book lying on the knees seems forever destined to never end.
Another hand, a few seats away, distracted by the hair and caress the cheek of a child sleepy. His fingers glide lens, the skin is soft. Two brothers come to visit his father. The mother is not.
A third hand slides in the window, slowly dissolving the steam that is formed by the cold week of January. Removing the curtain of white, you can see the speed of things that slip, a hole on speed, a look at the world out there, tense and nervous, but everything inside is loose in the slowness in the fast.
The torpor of a relaxed left asleep on the seat, mouth open, regular breathing. Emanates from the slow sleep of weary travelers, a black pond where dreams without sinking or consciousness.
Outside the sun-far, far away in the mountains, begins to rise, and how exhausting its millimeter rise, slowly, as the train does not stop to admire it and hides behind the houses that surpasses, and far from aligned track, aligned and before the sun rises, slowly. Blood red color.
passengers look at him, and for those in a hurry to get there is exasperating time that passes, it is exhausting for those who read the second from the clock, waiting for hours to finish this trip, hours that do not pass, that drag the slowness in the fast.
A pen writes something on an agenda. Black ink, white paper with lines, indicating a date for the past few years. The writer looks around listlessly, notes and lose you again to contemplate the landscape, the sun is risen, and his fellow coach.
The controller goes, dragging a bit 'tired feet for numbness in the morning. The stock market slams on side, while asking for advance tickets, slow, slow and tired in the fast.
the slow distracted that revives, the thread of thought that you cut and waving in the air like a thread of spider's web, to return to the second class coach and look for the ticket in the bag.
The slowness of the patience of those who have found a traveling companion talker, ready to tell every detail in life, her, family and country of origin.
The slow fade of all, second by second, while on board a quick escape from the past.
The slowness of a moment where everything stops.
The speed of the crash.
