He managed to cross the doors of the train just before they not close behind him in their usual uproar. The headphones glued to their ears, he quickly scans metal jar and sneaks up to a folding free. He collapses and leaves the spin breath too long during his successful run rampant on the platform. Further, an improvisational guitarist plays a guitar with despair equally melancholy. It is 18:10.
Set against the window, scroll it looks gray walls tinted pale neon. As his thoughts. Nothing seems to disturb it. Not even the sight of these men that frequently arise on those sweet eyes. Picked up on itself, tucked against his sadness. It's like that since he left. His life is more than survival, his heart is lying fallow. The melody that pierces scraped bearing the RER and that comes from the other end of the train only rock that weariness has become daily.
stations parade as always. The same order. The same back-and-forth of these crowds. The same faces. Ready there any more. Bag over his knees, his suit jacket unbuttoned, he read one of those free newspapers that sustain it very well his lack of appetite for what is happening around him. Worldwide. This world that she does not ultimately of little interest. The guitarist goes in the aisles with his cup. He will still be a room without knowing why today and not on other days.
Charles de Gaulle-Etoile. More than a resort, and it will come out of this hole that sometimes oppressive melancholy. Imagine all that distance that separates it from the air above his head. All these people around her, locked in these preserved wheel. All the life that teems between here and yonder. Noise. That smell. She sometimes vomit. And this poor man who goes into the aisles in search of a smile, part of a meal ticket. It will give him a room anyway because his melancholy rhymes with hers.
6:26 p.m. - The crowds gathered at the gates. It also clumps. As usual. The train stops. Doors release the horde swarming, eager rushing shamelessly on the escalators. He prefers the stairs. It is quieter. His train is in 5 minutes. He will. Check
up the stairs, she tries not to get trampled by the notorious selfishness of users of public transport. It passes through the turnstiles. Monte few more steps and is featured on the docks. In the open air. Finally. His train will not be long. The crowd is already compact. The guitarist is also there, a little further.
6:32 p.m. - The train pulls into the station ready to swallow a new flow of passengers. The doors open in front of him. Those of end of car. Where we put the bikes or people who do not want to be with other guests rail. He narrowly avoided ending up against the guitarist and his guitar cumbersome and opted at the last moment, for just missing another entry to reverse a pretty young woman with the sad face.
She smiled at the man who had a bit awkward to apologize for having rushed. Probably the first smile of the day. Hers was beautiful, tender and full of sadness hidden. Like her.
18h35 - The urban livestock is raised, one against the other, the doors close, the train is leaving. He finds himself stuck between a big balèze the sinister-looking, an old crumbling and the pretty young woman. He tries to keep the human body to prevent it from being crushed against the glass.
Luckily, she was born. For once his nose is not under the armpits of a man with poor hygiene. On the contrary. The man seems to hurry of feet and hands to prevent it from being built. Again a smile.
What strange sweetness comes from the mouth watching him. He feels within him a magic heat. A kind of welfare. Like a sunbeam chasing a shot of the dark clouds that obstruct his heart. A violent swerve the involuntarily closer to her.
his body against hers, she does nothing to free himself. On the contrary. This contact of the paralyzed head to toe. A shiver runs through it. His eyes meet hers. She turns, gets closer. They are face to face.
Nothing else seems to matter. What is around. Time. Stations that parade. Their faces eventually touch. Kissing. As if he had always known. As if life had put there.
Further a guitarist looks. He smiled. He puts his guitar, closes his long coat. Behind, near his feet, wings disappear ...
I did not win on stage 11. Snapshots of travel. You can not win every time. Though. The winner of this round is already in its fourth victory I think. Very talented guy (Roj Rujanavej from Thailand). Me anyway, I'm just very easily from my podium the previous step. Remains a pretty picture I am sharing. See you soon! 
