The train chugga-chugged lazily towards the small coastal town whose name Christian still could not pronounce, no matter how hard he tried. He'd tried to write... his mind refused to cooperate. He didn't want to write a short story, a novel, poetry- he just didn't feel like writing, period.

He looked out the window of his little cabin. He still didn't know what to call the little compartments of a train. A cabin? A compartment? Whatever it was, he had his own. A large plain spread out before him. Small spring colors dotted the green plain like a painting... blue and pink and yellow and red and white. The sky was bright, clear blue, with two or three fluffy white clouds dotting the background.

Picturesque. That was the perfect word for it. Picturesque. The way the plain's grass gently waved in the wind, the way the flowers danced...

Great, thought Christian. Even when I'm not writing, I think like an author!

He chuckled to himself.

From his bag, he removed a worn book, the cover stained and the pages dog-eared.

He read for a little bit, dozed on and off, and stared out the window for the remainder of the trip, all the while trying his best not to let his aching heart dissolve his resolve to go home, pulling him back to Montmartre. He had gotten used to having a slight ache in his heart... and not one that could be remedied by a tonic or fresh air. One thing could soothe and heal his heart.

One of the principles of his beloved revolution.

The train conductor person began to announce the name of the town where Christian was to get off at. As he gathered his things, he muttered the name to himself, trying to get the proper pronounciation.

He still couldn't get it.

Sighing, he gave it up, putting on his coat and holding the brim of his hat.

The train wheezed into the station, stopping with a lurch that threw Christian crashing into the wall.

"Ow." he muttered.

The conductor once again walked the halls, announcing what town they were in.

Christian joyfully got off the train, and inhaled deeply, hoping to smell the salty aroma of the near-by sea.

He hacked and coughed as he breathed in the train's exhaust.

He walked away from the train and towards the harbor. There was a cool breeze that smelled heavily of the ocean. When he got to the dock, he looked out over the boats and saw the sun sinking into the water with a watercolor sky.

He wandered around, trying to find the ferry that would take him to England.

He looked and looked, and finally, he found a pleasant, plump, pink, white and blue ferry named 'Marie Léanne'.

After showing his papers and his ticket, he boarded the pretty little boat. Lights glowed through the windows invitingly, little children scampering around the decks, some being chased after by harried mothers, but more often by nannies or maids.

He wandered about, finding his room, subconsciously settling himself in, then wandering back to deck as the little ferry pulled away from the dock.

He stood on the dock for a while, studying the sliver of sun still visible over the horizon. Dark was falling. A few stars were just sparkling in the dark sky above, growing paler as they neared the horizon.

Sparkling, he thought. All stars sparkle so brightly. They sparkle for a time. A very long time. They sparkle and brighten the world. And then, suddenly, without warning, the star stops shining, burning brightly then burning out.

Stars.

Stars, sparkling.

Stars, sparkling in the night.

Stars, brightening the dark and dreary night.

Stars sparkle... then fade.

Stars fade.

All stars fade, not just the brightest or the best.

Every star.

Not just the weak ones.

All stars burn out.

Stars- they sparkle.

They sparkle and shine.

Beautiful.

Stars sparkle beautifully.

Stars.

Stars... they shine like diamonds.

Diamonds.

Diamonds sparkle like stars.

All diamonds.

Even sparkling ones.

And then they burn out.

Diamonds.

She was one.

A diamond.

A star.

The North star is a beacon to all those lost.

She was his North Star.

A brightly burning beacon.

The beacon of his soul.

Satine.

A star.

A diamond.

How she sparkled.

And how quickly she burned out.

Leaving him lost.

Without reason or warning, he was left in the dark, his only source of light savagely removed.

Satine.

His Satine.

Gone too soon.

Dark.

Cold.

The night is cold.

A night without stars is cold.

Without stars, the world is dark and bleak.

And so was he.

HIs sky was dark.

No stars to guide.

Dark.

Bleak.

No light.

Stars.

They sparkle... then fade.

Even the ones that are loved.