Is the fourth time a charm or is it the third time. It was my fourth time in Paris, but it was a first for a Parisian summer.
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Lying down to the reclined chair in the train, there was a sense of ease. The train was speeding away to a faraway destination. The rhythmic sounds of the acceleration raced as it flew across the pasture. The sheep nodded silently as our train crossed their home and looked back as if they sounded farewell. After dimming the lights, the late-night train slowed down so gently that few passengers would have noticed a change in the engines. There was nothing left but passengers’ exhaustion. I looked out the window and tried to focus on the lamp posts that had passed by but dazed blankly as the fatigue washed over me.
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