When the train got in, the clock at the station said it was 10 to 3. It was actually 11:17. The yellow station and its protruding blue clock rose almost out of nowhere, green and brown fields all around it, a brook a few yards away in between two lines of chestnut trees, dried-up in spite of the recent rains. Caked mud beside white clouds and a warming sun. It felt like that moment when at the Phaeacians’ court, Ulysses struggles to make sense of his past, unable to separate his own self from the stories about his exploits at far-away Troy – in time, in space, the city that had been destroyed. It also felt miles from the other city where the train had, merely an hour before, pulled away. And it was in actual fact, that being the only thing that felt and was the same.