Colours pour from a tiny celestial teapot. Tiny, yet of infinite capacity, filled with all the worldly and unworldly colours. Shades fall upon the sky, colours pour into it, appearing so close, yet far too distant. There’s a teapot in the sky. It might even be a kettle; a red kettle, just like mine. Once can’t see it, but it is there. It always was. sometimes the cosmic wind tips it over. And that’s when its infinitely colourful contents pour down our skies. Colours flood the sky like water, yet remain motionless, yet somehow full of life. Like a silk scarf in the wind. Like a thin layer of smoke.

Somewhere in a deserted station, there lies a train. Apparently, just a big pile of rusty metal. where it goes, it does not matter. It always takes you to some place you’ve never seen before. some place that never was, and never will be, for that matter. It’s there, just for a moment in time. yet that one moment will seem nearly endless.

There are no compartments, just rows of seats. The wallpaper is the colour of old paper and the seats are covered in a faded red something that once was velvet. The wallpaper is peeling off here and there, to reveal nothing but rusty iron. There seldom are more than two people in each carriage.

A man will ask you of your ticket. Don’t ever say you have one. The wind will tear your meaningless ticket to bits and you’ll just be kicked out. If you prove that you have no ticket, he might let you on. You’ll gaze weirdly at his hand, which lies outstretched in front of you. Just give him a piece of paper. He appreciates those kinds of things. It can even be crumpled. Do write something on it. Pour your heart out, act as though you had a heart, let your imagination run loose, write the next best-selling novel. But make it short. Such things are far more valuable than tickets.

You will get thirsty at some point. At a completely other point in time, you shall be asked whether you wanted a drink. You’ll choose between tea, coffee and white wine. Albeit you will invariably get tea. What kind of tea, it depends on the tea-maker’s mood. All trains have tea makers. Some even have pretty decent ones. But this tea will be good. Strange and bitter, yet exceedingly sweet at the same time, but it will be good. If you’re lucky, you may even get a cookie.

The journey will end. I can’t tell you how, though. You see, I’m still on the train. Just watching the world passing by and enjoying my tea and cookie.