A temple, a hill, some urban paint scrawl proclaims a new god, an ever eroding canvas crumbles to the now. The shout of salami breathed Jungen infiltrate the kocsma and our peace - Zsofi! - yells of sun and sand, anticipation. Singled out for some previous insurrection Gyorgy sulks in his yellow shirt. The heady smell of warm liver paste and mosquito repellant repels the passengers. The heat deadens us, we are sapped of energy and sway to the train's beat. Our compartment cohort reads Hunter S. Thompson in translation: Las Vegasban Loathing es Fear. A page of Steadman. One is charged with the mass of sun camp kids. Gonzo'd in Budapest. Another plays with his lock-blade. A double edged stiletto mentality, pig eyes, complex inferiority. I'm grooving with Mr. Jones as a wafer-thin cracker disappears. Tobacco stained windows rust and scratch their channels. The smell of liver comes back, the energy of onion breakfasts. The marsh and fifty pages of ponty gear. Inyoubing. Diet Cocaine. Scholarship 1969 Full Ride. Aboriginal Gear Since 1959. The journey continues.