You’re 19 and this is an easy decision. You board his ship without saying goodbye, and there you go.
You’re 21 when you end up in Los Angeles during the seventies. Everyone is long hair and long pants and long blouses. Everyone is always sniffling. Everyone is always asking you where you’re from.
“I’m from here,” you lie. You always say you’re from here. From there. From nowhere. Are any of them really lies?
Your life is one party after the next, the hours blending so seamlessly you can’t tell how you got from one loft to the next apartment. It’s seamless the way cigarette smoke disappears into the air. The way bubbles burst. The way leaves flutter down from the trees in everywhere else but LA.
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