He imagines the platform as a place of gravity, the timetables predicting our movements; where we’re crossed in the union of connections with strange people and strange cities along the rail-lines—everything hanging still beyond the windowpane, as you are in that place between places, suspended yet in motion, leaving yet arriving at once without the feeling of having moved at all.  Alone, he watches the train draw away slowly into the yellow dryness of May.  The wind ejects a curtain of dust over the people that shift about the platform.  People, having come or gone, illuminated a pale yellow in the sunlight, as they shift about draped in fine grit sand petals.  He thinks of the letter.  Of what it said.  Of what it has come to suggest, or simply state wrongly.  “I am leaving, only to arrive, to carry you with me as a seed in my hands, to watch it grow—knowing that in time I will see you again with new eyes.”  He himself is unsure of what this means.  There was, of course, a feeling that led him to write it. Perhaps it was the temptation to give the words more, to exaggerate for effect.  Perhaps it is this sense of the un-real that gives it true meaning.  Yet what he wrote was in earnest. To the extent to which, he is unsure that the letter says what he set it out to say.  His newspaper folds, and the sand burns his eyes.  She believes these letters mean that he will return for her; that they would reunite in the flames of August—A friendship ruptured by an act of irrevocable passion—A new conflict.  He is unable to distract himself from the letter, written in a language that is not his own.  He knows that she didn’t understand what he has tried to say, and this has made him uneasy, perhaps even fearful.      

            
            His train is arriving.