On the bus, somewhere between Chiayi and Tainan:
As we get down here into the farm lands - this river through it, the three mystery lonely dogs running down an otherwise abandoned road, the spread of the feather-headed meadows out in coloured directions, the haze of the sun setting, the rows and rows planted - we are entering some unspeakably beautiful moment. I'd roll around in it and wrap myself in this earth.
This is a land going dim but still so pretty. Flat. The sun's reflected in pools and ponds and mirror-lined by stripped crops half submerged.
This land is mine, much as I'm a foreigner. I'd tramp all over it, a barefooted snake-biter. Stop the bus and drop me on the road. On a found bicycle I'd whip along the ridge, raised to view the horizon-touching patchwork of rice paddies. Let me swim there, dive into the grasses, breathe the mud and be writhed round by rodents, roaches and serpents.
Allow me this dream. A long walk where my bank's gone who knows where, they going to contact me but I'll be unreached. They going to see a visa no more. They let out the passport, won't need my keys. The few houses will give me shelter. I'll pick fruit. Climb that distant electricity pylon and hang there to cool off. I'll go down with the sun.