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I traveled endless miles and came upon Paris, Texas, while David Crosby sang Cowboy Movie on the radio. Visions rose in my mind — the wild dreams of Kubrick, Lynch, Kitano. Dusk had fallen by then. Dark and unkind. Like a Francis Bacon painting, stripped of mercy. I took up my camera, same way Fritz Munro did in L.A., back in ’82. Like it was the only thing left to hold.