The Wardrobe by Thomas Mann — Read

It was cloudy, dusky, and cool when the Berlin-Rome express entered a railway station of medium size. In a first-class compartment, with lace covers over the backs of the broad plush seats, a lone traveller straightened himself up: Albrecht van der Qualen. He awoke. He experienced a sickly taste in his mouth, and his body was full of that not very agreeable feeling which is evoked by a standstill after a long journey, the silencing of the rhythmic rolling thud, the stillness which affords such a marked contrast to the noises without, the calls and signals.

-- This condition is like coming to out of a state of intoxication, of insensibility. Our nerves are suddenly deprived of the support, the rhythm, to which they had surrendered; now they feel themselves utterly disturbed and abandoned. And this is all the more pronounced when simultaneously we awake out of the dull sleep of a railway journey.