Sunday, 1 June 1997
The train quietly slipped into the station just past midnight. I shared a compartment with some Koreans, a Canadian friend and his Australian girlfriend, and a somewhat aggressive drunk acquaintance.
The station looked abandoned. In the waiting room was a TV and a VCR. Scarface with Al Pacino was showing, but there was something wrong with the display.
It was hot. A storm was brewing somewhere in the distance, and the wind was pulling at the wooden frame mirror next to the window.
Another part of my journey was over, and another part had begun. The station’s name: JUNE 1997.
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