I think I'm becoming infected by Hemingway, and I'm loving it, it fits like glove, or like a sock, or like something very close-fitting. Just wrote this:
"A morbid stillness gripped the luggage car. In the quiet the wheels clanked their regular ta-thunk, ta-thunk, ta-thunk, ta-thunk, and the blood dripped from the ceiling to the floor with every little shake, plonk.., plonk.., and the breath rushed out of Dima’s open mouth and whistled in and out of Alla Borisovna’s nostrils and pulled into Olesya’s lungs and burst out and she moaned, she whimpered and whined like an injured animal. And the noise of her pain stirred Dima and socked him out of his stupor.
“Emergency brake!” He was up. “Where is the emergency—” He slipped on the sludge and fell headlong onto the smooth elastic lining and bounced and lay still. The floor was gone. It dissolved. The walls were gone too. The doors, the windows, the ceiling, the suitcases, like they never existed, like all there ever was was the pulsing throbbing membrane that was the inside of the mucous tube that fed the venous deoxygenated blood to the heart of the train or the thing that was the train or pretended to be the train or lived in it, lived on after death. Olesya’s late father. Nikolay Vasilievich Lebedev, forty-four years old, forty-four for eleven years. Eleven years dead. Then why the hell did he want to see her dance now? Why here? Why on the train? Why didn’t he wait until they arrived? Why—
‘Maybe you want to show me your toy? That piece of junk you brought with you? Is it alive too? Is it?’ Inga’s words.
Is that it? My little locomotive? My Tuba? Did I...did I always carry him with me? Did I...
Dima pulled himself up on hands and knees and flipped his head from side to side and wiped the blood off his face and stared at Olesya and at the murky redness all around him and at the limp shape of Alla Borisovna who has fainted and lay on her side a little way off, the tide of the blood gently lapping her feet and her soaked pantyhose and the hem of her skirt and the sleeves of her cardigan, no longer grey but rich ruby. Alla Borisovna was wearing color. They were red, her clothes, her cheeks, and it suited her, it strangely suited her, and her face was calm and peaceful as though she was sleeping, rocked to and fro, to and fro by the regular thrum of TUBE, Trans-Urban Blitz-Express."