I’ve been reading all these stories about sweet broken American girls,
living in a L.A., trying to make it somehow.
Lana’s talking at some point about a choice between
love and knowledge.
That’s how borken girls sing about love and she knows it.
With their perfect high blonde hair and their merciless pouts,
they burst into pawn shops all over America,
then they buy bus tickets or some gasoline
and drive into the smoothness, into the harshness
of the American road,
of the American flags in front of freshly mowed lawns,
of freshly squeezed oranges.
She could live like this, you know.
Pawning her life away,
eating fruits and bread.
Breaking the bread, drinking the juice.
Wearing no earings at all.
pictures by dad