The Last Station

A lone story that doesn't even repeat endlessly.

An opus of no importance.

It is not unique, just like all the others.

Commonplace thoughtlessness.

It's not even alive.

Its one-sidedness precludes any conclusions.

It is the conclusion in itself.

An eternal haze, clouding the mind.

A monotonous chain of events, feeding happiness according to a schedule.

What else is needed to come to an end as quickly as possible? That seems to be the point.

What can be more beautiful than returning home? Looking out the window, you watch foreign landscapes change to familiar ones, and along with the realization that you have endured ten grueling hours, a gentle smile graces your face with the thought of imminent relaxation. It's hard to say what you want more: to prolong this moment of the journey home or, on the contrary, to hasten it.

However, it's time for me to go. The train is already one minute late, which means it will arrive in two.