I am done with the train. The romance of the railway, the double-enetndres of the morning ride, the melancholy of the station; I have let it all go. I didn't mind the mornings, I hated the evenings--the hollowness, the emptiness, the eternal delays. I was delayed, endlessly deferred, on the way home, there was no home anymore. A month ago there was even a suicide, in front of the express high speed train. Enough. So I found a new home, without a train. Alas, still a bus and a subway, as a pale reminder. I will always be a commuter. Let us then commute. And now, it turns out, you can even get killed on trains, in Leeds, in Boston, in Madrid. Alex Trifan S. Boston ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html