I find myself with little to write about this evening. Surely, the landscape is beautiful, and the sights of thousands of buffalo are amazing, but no events that are noteworthy have happened. The train is comfortable enough, and at night the seats turn into the most lovely beds. I slept better last night than I have in many nights.
We have lost a good three hours in the crossing of about ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo, though Phileas Fogg seems not in the least worried.
All is well with us, though Aouda does cough. I am signing off with this train photograph I found in San Fransisco.
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