I left with the wrong ticket for two and my bottom. Find me a midnight train. And he offered me - rehearse existence. I did not choose a coupe of emptiness. The cabin chose me with my loneliness. I knew - just when you were alone, the Man understands that he is borrowing the flesh. And again he returns to himself for air. Travelers weighed. And they broke in my eyes - because they were memories. And I was rushing to die to stop with dying. But every train is a wagon book instead of pages. Wagons travel slowly- as memory is accounted for, who remembers that she is alive. I missed every station as a home, not completely dead for its arrival. Except for one, the farewell with all the burnt yesterday's moments. And the train became a dead man, when he reached my final stop. He lost his breath. And he refused my return. Because the trains are the only ones. And when a train dies, someone is born. And this old platform with a breath of sand is still a port. Still is the real world around him. The spitting dust was screaming with trenches from construction and tunnels. But there will always be Varna. And he will always carry this city preoccupation for ships that your anchors descend. Or pick them up. But the ship, unlike a train, remains repeatable. And the only ones are the people who believed in his canvases. I remain free. I'm staying. He walks against the sea. And we breathe. The sea as a captain inhales me. And I inhaled his salt like a ship.