The eternal dream he longed for vanished in an instant. As he plummeted towards the earth, he felt no sadness, only a desire to close his eyes. The old path treaded upon has now crumbled, yet the journey ahead remains shrouded in mist.

Sunday merely stands silently in the corner of his room in the Astral Express, arms crossed, eyes glancing over the top of a phonograph and through the window, off into the abyss of space, caught in a stupor of immense thought and contemplation. As he remains completely still, save for the blinking of his eyes, the rising and falling of his chest, and the occasional flex of his fingers, he mutters to himself.

After the awakening, the world continues its cycle of suffering, with no escape, the same as always...

He carries the past, turns his back on his homeland, and continues towards a paradise that does not yet exist. So, why do people slumber? And why do they wake? As planets streak past outside the window, the answer now demands a new meaning to be given.

Completely unaware to anything going on around him — the soft brr-ing of the fan on his bedside table, the compliments of March 7th to one of her many pets before she returns to the main parlor car and the celebration along with it, and the sounds of his door sliding open, followed by footsteps and the said door being slid back shut — Sunday continues his nigh-silent mutterings.

Maybe... just maybe I still can...