black and white,
stories of strangers on the road,
"strangers in heaven",
Jarmusch's constant alienation and wandering,
no fixed place,
lonely like a geese in a team,
wailing through the empty and high sky in autumn.
After living in the city for a long time, I
have long forgotten the team of geese flying south,
migrating,
missing the warm south,
giving birth to wings in a dream, and
being a time traveler.
In the severe winter of Ohio,
they went to see the frozen and snow-covered lakes,
longed for Florida, and
longed for the soft sand and warm sunshine of Miami.
Think of Cassady,
think of Hudson,
think of Route 66's galloping,
midnight rush.
The final separation is
dramatic and long,
like an unfinished tune.
A light fog hits,
accompanied by sadness...
thoughts are like silkworms spinning silk,
growing every inch and
forming a thick cocoon,
can it withstand the cold?
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