A review: my blueberry night

You know that feeling when you were at a party and you are desperately wanting to get drunk. But you didn't so you just keep drinking. Finally you give up, you go home, the alcohol kicks in and you are left hanging, longing for the embrace of a three minute friend, the kiss of a stranger.

You might just really want to write a letter to an old lover.
You might just want to stare at the ceiling listening to jazz.
You look around, and everything is illuminated.
street lamps, light diffuses on cement pavement, her patent leather shoes.
Norah Jones crooning, " it is a story that's been told before...."
We had lived for so long, so long that we forget that we are alive. That we forgot some people who walked out and some people , who we had waited and kept their keys.
We forget our waiting to survive the partings.
Should I not made that journey, to come back and kiss you once more?
should I not linger, and drink myself to pieces, so that you, maybe you will come back and sit with me. Like friends, we will have a whiskey, like strangers, and we will leave each other again.
Had I not broken your hearts, I would not be in pain all this years.
My penance, in the form of addiction.
I promise, honey, this is the last time I drink, and I will let you go tomorrow morning.
Meanwhile, I am intoxicated by the colors of the night
The night air smells like rivers, slow streams of dark water silently running across time.

Memory, the aftertaste of your breathe.

you know this country is so much like home.

Does it matters where we are when we look at the same unforgiving landscape through a glass door that never close, yet was never opened?

Does it matter if we deliver our badly scripted lines in Chinese or in English?

Does it matter if I have a different name, live in a different city and speaks a different language?

Footsteps,

the sound of a train thundering pass.