Berlin is your friend, it said. I turned it over and back again. We didn't need friends just a translator, our words on crutches, stumbling down the fronts of our shirts. Practiced and practiced again sentences, strung up like washing lines that hung in the air like the silence that followed; our foreign breaths rusting up the carriage clock as twelve hours crawled on hands and knees over bodies, carpet burned, which curled and uncurled, elbows in elbows in accordance with our English dreams. Like two centipedes caught on their backs we did not sleep but carried that train until the morning, winking through the windows of my birthday, whispered hello.