What else is out there, what lies beyond the Train window, but swift rows of white poplar trees and sown fields of January unfolded, with catenary masts regularly interspersed, even the many fleeting faces which it dart a glance along the way on railroad crossings, and crowded platforms, while this reverie it is lulling me into sleep, on the seat of the train, thanks to the clickety-clack sound of the wheels on the railroad track.