an abandoned locomotive in panama
the delicious, peaceful, dreamy feeling of bathing in warm, moist grass, glowing emerald-green leaves all round and sun sun sun everywhere
memories of writing my one of my first short stories, about a network of abandoned trainways in then east berlin
memories that seem to reach even farther, that make me wonder whether there is such a thing as past-life memories; colonial places such as panama (and new orleans, and paraguay, and argentina, and cuba, and india and …) always touch me with such deep, puzzling nostalgia
a mood of sweet laziness
and – a magical mystery tour, of sorts? i wonder what it is that makes me – and others, too, i think – feel so magically touched by such old picture stories. is it that they have us imagine a rich, old past? are we intrigued by the transformation from shiny new technology to forgotten, overgrown and yet somehow still glowing castaway?
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