"All aboard! The train is due to leave any minute...!"
Google Translate is killing me. (On purpose.) Wish I had a babel fish. Wish I was a babel fish. Poisoned by the roe of a barbel. Nostradamus predicted my death. Death by Google Translate.
Two otherwise completely separate lives converge (not on purpose) because of mutual friends: Her. David Bowie. Charles Dickens. Arrogance. Odd fascinations. A crash is inevitable. Most train accidents appear to be crashes. Or explosions. It takes a long time to find the word "derail" in Wikipedia's list of rail accidents. The first woman to be killed in a rail accident was in 1827. In 2012 a woman hopes to survive the upcoming crash.
My nails are blue. On purpose. But they are also blue (not on purpose) underneath the varnish. It's supposed to be spring. But winter isn't willing to let go. No amount of varnish can disguise that.
Do as I say; not as I do. And for the love of Digressions, don't do as I say I do.
"The Great Artesian Basin provides the only reliable source of freshwater through much of inland Australia." And there is Evian, of course. Creepy babies. Terrible twos. Terrible tea. Better stick to water. Of the artesian kind, naturally. Transported from Fiji, where "[t]he purest water comes from the purest clouds. Our rainfall is purified by trade winds as it travels across the Pacific Ocean to the islands of Fiji." And then polluted by the airplanes transporting this purer-than-purest PET-bottled water to Norway, via London. (On purpose?) "Please recycle." Please, I already bought myself a pure conscience.
"I hear the train sidetracked?"
"Yes. Derailed completely. Terrible accident. Weren't you supposed to be on the train, though?"
"I was. Missed it by seconds."