Faraway the mountain picks are gone to the mist of a rusty place.
The white anomaly,
the cold solitude,
the piano evening
and the sound of passing trucks in their brazen nights.
What am I looking for?
Where am I going to?
is there a place where I can get into and come back like nothing happens in between?
When the cigerettes drop on the railroads and the sky separates to distant smoke,
there must be an amusement in the way the roads are taken along with the ride.
The great safari,
the touches in the middle of nowhere…
we all carry a grave in our butt and a fight in our face
and at the end the flow takes us,
the flow from the unknown,
the flow from where everything is a memory.

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Photograph: Le Xuan.