Some people are never really there, wandering ghost-like in the dark like postcolonial rats. Take for example Lucky Boy. He always wanted to be Tom Waits. Or Elvis. But he failed. Hopelessly failed. So he went on travelling, searching for his derivative soul on the streets of an imaginary Village, in the backstreets of a virtual Tennessee, below the nonexistant bridges of San Diego, leaving nothing behind but some songs – too American to be genuine. Just like Kafka, had he played the banjo that is...
Come and watch Lucky. Come dancing in the dark...