The crowded carriage, a delicate tubular shell offering sanctuary from the trees and ground and sky that are flying by with such momentum, everyone is going somewhere, yet each is a part of the wallpaper of another. There is a small boy, squealing in a manner no doubt as unwelcome to the human furniture as to me. His pacifier is redundant as his utterings flow around it. His mother (I presume) tells him to “shut up and come here”. He comes, but doesn’t shut up, and in his bid to do so whilst holding his own, falls and hits his head. His sounds take on a new tone, even less agreeable. Nothing much changes. Everyone is going somewhere.