Once more, a man with cowboy boots walks down to the drizzly roads.
He dresses a black suit, a boxy white hat and walks with measured slowness; nothing, not the fans crowding the theatres, not the policemen cause the man to break the rhythm.
Seeing him for road, not many people recognize the tramp. He sings for everybody and for money in the dimly lit theatre, in a city near to the hills. He sings of girls Mama’s homemade dress, of girls nobody’s child, of locomotives that blow and of scarlet towns.
His song, his tales, are absolute and universal and make the city nameless, bad unique. This transforms the city, like all cities where he sang before, always the same stories, always on the same street.
It is a ritual, it's clear. It’s not a concert that attracts masses and makes sense only associated to people listening to the same songs that have heard her sing so, last year and the year before.
The man with cowboy boots don't let the outside world into his music, is playing the part of the singer playing the singer. Is a mirror within a mirror, a permanent fantasy, an illusion that disappears when touched.
He's already gone.