That
railway line ran only on weekends. On Friday carrying miners to their homes scattered throughout the plains and returned Sunday the desolate mountain. The routine was always the same: the train arrived at the mountain, kept blowing his whistle, miners slowly approached the station master shouted the miners left behind, the 25-seat passenger was late and the train started. Nobody knew where the passenger sat 25. Although the ticket made it very clear where he belongs, the passenger to ignore the indication. Into the great river, the beginning of a great line, all poked their heads out the windows and saw the 25 passengers leave the train. It was always the same. They could even tell which tree height was thrown. And in return, in the same line turned up. Nothing strange in such mysterious behavior, but everybody knew some story told in whispers. That afternoon, 25 passengers arrived late as usual and disappeared inside the car. All according to the monotony. When the train reached the line, approached the door they saw a passenger jump into the void. All were silent. The 25 passengers got off at the last station.
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Wednesday 16: Feelings: I
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