The train had come to a standstill. On either side of the tracks there was rich vegetation and foliage. We were in London, apparently, but it could be anywhere at all. I was imagining exploring these track side areas on foot, losing myself in their green abundance, maybe making a wooden hut and going wild, living on pigeons and foxes. It seemed an attractive possibility. The bushes and trees on the sides of the train tracks carried on and on and felt calming and contemplative. There was even, maybe around Peckham Rye, a small area of reeds blowing in the wind.
'Where are we now?' She asked.
I had no idea but said, 'Between The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath and the Evening Standard'. To our left was a woman leafing through a heavily annotated copy of the Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath; to our right was a pile of discarded Evening Standard newspapers.
As long as I have my music with me I could stare out of a train window forever and ever.