Tilted on its side, the empty railway carriage, gutted by fire, veers perpendicularly from its eerie in the snow. Wrapped in goggles and scarves, I sit astride the frozen lip of the high wooden door and peer at the turbulent wilderness around me. Surely, God, I abandoned my home for some kind of detail, not this abstract hoardom, this indifferent white lap? I would call for vodka, a mutiny and some kind of imaginary friend.
