For a while I though that the railway station is a museum of feelings. I was wrong. It’s an antiquated in-between landscape of outdated sentimental tension. It doesn’t mean anything any more than a bus stop or an elevator hall or the offending lie of wall-marts. No place for tragic departures or open ended arrivals. No patina of the entanglement of motion, no heroic goodbyes or hellos to misplaced lives. No symbolic substance. It’s a sterile ruin of a time when living seemed to dispose a point of departure.