Wednesday 3 June. Past Perm, on the way to Yekaterinburg
Arms resting on the frame of the corridor window, I see it pass. Bright, gigantic sphere, it shines through the branches. In vain, porous clouds try to conceal its splendour but its light seeps through their cloak, bathing the forest in a grey, almost ghostly halo. The night is so clear that it is possible to distinguish the different greens of bushes and pine trees. I carefully peer out, just enough to see the tip of the train taking a curve. Gulps of fresh air hit my face, stuffing my nose. Tireless, the machine pulls its wagons, lighting the way, its beams long swords perforating the Siberian night. On it goes, with its green metallic body, like a giant caterpillar in its untiring march towards the East. It does not go fast, it cannot, and even slows at times, weary of the worn tracks. But it is enough to leave the moon behind, slowly moving towards the right side of the window. Someone passes behind me, I get distracted, and there it is again peering in from the South East.