It is generally thought wise to begin a tale with some notion as to its outcome and perhaps even its significance in mind. It was then with great trepidation that Theodore undertook his whimsical attempt at fiction. He had woken early with a general unease having roused him from slumber. A proclivity towards the unreal or perhaps the partially real had characterized his dealings with those upon whom he chanced on any given day. That and a sense of unbridled melancholy – an insatiable nostalgia for a past which by all reckoning he had never known. This day was to prove no exception – save for his nearly inexplicable thirst for the penning of a tale which seemed at once to root him to the firmament of his all too undulating existence and to render him transcendent all the while of the same. There had been a train in his dreams – and a woman. What the two had to do with one another he was as yet unsure. He was determined nonetheless to forge a link however tenous, however apocryphal between them. The train had led somewhere to be sure – but that meant little – or at least it seemed inconsequential. A mere detail – trains must lead somewhere after all. And the woman. She had a visage of sorts, angelic yet muted – which was about as monumentous a triviality as the bearing of the train. There was something else, however. A detail, a moment, a figment of fitful sleep perhaps, a demon of the most uncommon banality.