The only thing I miss about Los Angeles is the Hollywood Freeway at midnight, windows down and radio blaring
bearing right into the center of the city, the Capitol Tower on the right, and beyond it, Hollywood Boulevard blazing—pimps, surplus stores, footprints of the stars —descending through the city fast as the law would allow
through the lights, then rising to the stack out of the city to the stack where lanes are stacked six deep
and you on top; the air now clean, for a moment weightless without memories, or need for a past.
"California Plush," Frank Bidart
