While the train was leaving the platform, one could still hear the old people’s wails: pessimists, gazelles, those excluded from compensation, about to assume forever that only certainty they did not ask for.
Vestigo Inani, lying down in the first class cargo car (unused for lack of cargo, but chock-full of luxury finishing touches), his shirt and pants hanging from a nail, his socks in his shoes, his shoes stuck in a Murano rift (opening like a cleft between two Bohemia mirrors), asked himself why Relena had not recognized him (and there was really a reason to ask – not like other times, like most of the times, when one answers with a shrug. Or with a guess that gets lost in the fog of astrocytes and misfires, doesn’t spark, gets damp).
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