Sometimes I miss those days of swollen highways and smoky nights. The darkened theaters full of promise never lost their allure. The vacant eyes, endless lies, and lost dreams, that's another story. They say it never rains in California- what about all the rivers cried in the city of Angels. Innocence is a curse in a place run by Devils. Ghosts of glitz and vintage glamor, sneak in and out of the shadows- a nostalgic reminder of an era lost in time. A woman sits alone in a dirty, smoky bar on Sunset- once Hollywood royalty, now just a lesser version of herself. Once upon a time, her sexuality was a powerful scent that brought them through the doors, now it is barely distinguishable, lost in the smell of cheap scotch,nicotine and regret- its faint odor is a sad reminder of the dreams she lost when she made a pact with the Devil too many moons ago. She doesn't have laugh lines. She never had much to laugh about.
They say L.A is a city of dreams. Whose dreams anyway? Once you fall a sleep the Sandman steals everything from you, but your pillowcase stained with disappointment. Wake up baby- I think you need to go home now- last call. She stumbles off of the worn bar stool, bows to no one in particular and steps into the lonely streets of "no one gives a shit." Just one more Hollywood causality swallowed up by a city that cares more about a postal code than a Jane Doe living under a down town bridge. She takes a long drag from her cheap ass cigarette, and tosses it into the gutter. After a moment of digging through her torn up Channel wannabe purse, she pulls out her two dollar sun glasses- putting them on, she stumbles into the night like all the other dreamers who never woke up. "Come on baby take another Ambian....Hold on just one more night. Come on baby, the Sandman ain't coming back no more-there ain't nothing left to steal," she mumbles nonsensically to herself, leaving the pungent stench of cheap booze, cheaper cigarettes and, loneliness in her wake.
The path to true inner peace
