The Wild West is myth, Mr Lamb. Fabulous narration of an ancient, dark time, of which we speak as if existing, though it is not. Its smell does exist and it is warm alright, yet not such as that of incandescent wood, cinnamon and melted butter, but rather a very strong scent of berries, with very distinguished notes of asphalt enriched with carbon monoxide. It was this smell that first welcomed me, and to this I will always be grateful.
At the dawn of my first debut, it really stunned me and made me lose my bearings. It literally sucked me into another dimension, in some sort of Hotel California atmosphere. You can not explain English and its thousand exceptions, America and its endless contradictions without wandering a bit ‘.
The Eagles’ drummer ended up in hell. I, at the dawn of my first day in what was once the land of the Paiute Indians, I landed in a puddle, taken as I was to mimicking the magnificent incipit on an imaginary guitar. And here I am in this unit as I walk along the tree-lined sidewalk, round, oval and trapezoidal flower beds with oleanders, Scotch pines, pittosporum, Canadian maples and jasmine, running between one turf and the other, cool wind in my hair (and in the bushes), a warm smell of colitas rising up through the air …

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