is the cause of Hopper. But perhaps not all: in fact, the last time I traveled in the U.S. I swore I would never set foot in a Greyhound bus. This promise to myself depended not so much that already 'thinking about how much more' comfortable 'train, as the gun and syringes protruding from the bag discreetly signed ("Swag") of the man who had boarded at Death City, New Mexico and was sitting next to me snarling. I resisted for four hours and forty minutes a scent - a subtle mix of old sweat and barely contained rage with the world - and then to despair are fell at the first stop useful: Shit Hole, Arizona. Within three seconds, I could have any doubt about the etymology of the name of this country has been dissolved: the place consisted of one street, three ubriachoni lying on the ground and a dog was shitting with determination in front of Hotel Hole Central. For months after, the phrase "Never Again" bouncing in my head like a squash ball in a crazy game-ending, and that is why I am now in train so comfortable that I'm falling asleep as I write. For this and for Hopper. Goodnight ...
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