We can go, Jean, the way is clear, the luggage is checked. On stacked notebooks, the memories have taken the train. Hélène, life is a railway; the rails cross there to converge towards the heart of our signal boxes. Inside, each and every one of us is a survivor every day. Of these vanished worlds, childhood, youth, misdirections and graces, the music remains. The words roll like stones to the rhythm of our stories, lived, interrupted, dreamed, in a book of travels for two.