The boy sat on the train that would take him to the station where he would catch the train that would take him to the airport where he would be lifted away from everything he had been dreaming in real-time. It is hard to say goodbye. He pulled down his bucket hat, a gift from his grandmother, and stared out the window, squarely forming a portrait of the mountains in the distance, a misty blue, almost a chalky lavender in relation to the green landscape spread vibrantly before it. The sky was vapors, a gateway to vanishing, to dissolution. The boy cried. He hid his head, so no one could see. What is this feeling, he thought, this feeling of fleetingness, how everything passed so quickly into nothing, how rapidly it disappeared, when you stared out a window, a lens for a slideshow of images comprising not only scenery, but the way your memories adhered to that scenery, congealed, and became inextricably wedded to what you saw, how you perceived, in brief fleeting doses, and then gone, it sped away, fell behind, everything at the mercy of instant blurring, moments of clarity crunched into blurring, as if you were taking an unstable eye test—was the test unstable, the images, your vision … what is this feeling? Were these bladed pangs of a farewell that left a heart wounded, wandering, ponderous? The boy looked out the window and then fell asleep. I do not know what, if anything, he dreamed.