Smoked the last of the Peter Jacksons by the time I made it to 1750 Vine. She said to meet her by Marilyn's star. Outside the McDonalds on Hollywood. Backpack full of used books without the covers. A modern day hobo's bindle. Those long winding roads leading up to Griffith Park. In the back of the van reading an old Daily Breeze while spiraling down Vermont Canyon Road like a gumball in a funnel. She was a penny in a wishing well. I was a fountain in an empty shopping mall. Meet me underneath the astronomical clock in Prague where Gothic cathedrals soar behind Romanesque churches and Art Nouveau is hand-in-glove with Cubism. Just then I woke up to a snowstorm in Keystone, South Dakota. I rubbed my eyes, rolled my neck, hit pause on my discman and sleptwalked into the gas station snack shop where I bought myself a large hot chocolate.