for old pedals. This car and I share a disdain for motoring. Morning smoke from the turbo, fuel lines and cables aching. I should wash the mats but I’d rather be reading or daydreaming. Rather be in a couchette, porthole onto the taiga, white drapes and goose down against the creeping ice. Cocktails later, joining Burroughs in the dining car to compare notes on The Outline of History.
