I met a mad clown and rode a small train with her; it was to scale and every bit a train without wings though she said it might fly. Look, she pointed as birds lifted and the trees stretched up to follow. The seat was padded and I stretched out with my back to the window. Down the aisle I saw the legs and feet of children their torsos obscured their heads not taller than the back rests. Should this train fly, I thought, it will take all the children up with it into the pale blue light of beginnings and endings and confuse the world. The clown’s hair was orange beneath her cap, her red lips so large they pulled the corners of her mouth down. She kept pointing at mountains and seascapes of the Coromandel where we were, where the train was riding round and round on its tracks. She thought the whole peninsula might lift and soar be mistaken somewhere for a comet. I held the mad clown’s hand and tried to see with her eyes, her black mascaraed eyes set thickly in white foundation.