Texas, Paris.
Legend has it that it was a paradise, a place to fall in love and nurture life.
Texas, Paris.
An inaccessible desert oasis.
If loneliness is a kind of destiny, then whether escape is a kind of relief.
Where is our home, where is love, where do we return, what do we seek.
That mirror, not just between Travis and Jane, is between each of us. The souls of each other hide behind the mirror, and only their own shadow can peep.
Oh, us, young Mick, dumb Singer, Travis, Don Johnston with the Broken Flower, and everyone who walks the road of life. Oh we, the mighty soulless strangers.
To the west, to the west, the sun always rises behind.
What's ahead, what's ahead, at the end of the road, is there a rainbow, is there a foggy landscape, whether or not, we finally hugged the big tree. The big tree in the fog, the father far away in Germany.
At this moment, the night is so quiet that only the whistle in the distance, the drifting on the rails and on the highway. At this moment, who would look at the lonely far light outside the window, it is not the direction of home, but us left in the dark.
In spring, let's go home. On the green hills by the roadside, the mountain flowers are full of flowers. There was a drizzle of rain on the road, and the raindrops on the glass windows swayed their thin tails, and they were already angry before they swam to the shore. These scrambled tadpoles, these tadpoles made of rain, spring tadpoles.
I think there is no rain in Texas in the spring, and there is no Paris in the Texas Badlands.
I just went home in the spring and left the next day.
I'm still on the journey west, with everyone, and no one. 06.3.14
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