“I am never sure of time or place upon a Railroad. I can’t read, I can’t think, I can’t sleep – I can only dream,” wrote Charles Dickens in his journal during the 1850s. “Rattling along in this railway carriage in a state of luxurious confusion, I take it for granted I am coming from somewhere, and going somewhere else … I know nothing about myself – for anything I know, I may be coming from the Moon.” 

Nearly two centuries later, one feels the same sense ofhellip;

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