Los Angeles.
View from the covertible.
It's literally a dream come true.
It's literally paradise.
The hills
and the green
and the palm trees.
It's the type of beauty
that has a touch
of charming arrogance to it--
like it knows how perfect it is
and it's pleased with itself.
As it should be.
The billboards.
The twisting knots of freeways,
always crammed with people
that I look at, thinking,
"You live here.
All the time.
This is your life."
It's hard to believe.
These people.
All of them.
All types of them--
not just Caucasians.
Not just Americans.
Murmurs of French heard
in the strangest places.
People working in Italian restaurants
a block from the beach.
People who live
just between the Pacific Coast Highway
and the water.
Tamales.
And sunshine.
And amusement parks.
And naked people
on the side of the highway.
And teenage boys surfing
and ladies cursing at each other
in the Costco parking lot.
And Koreans with cute babies
studying at UCLA.
And men that walk around
just dressed like Charlie Chaplin.
And,
and,
and,
all of it.
It buzzes with all the electricity
of all the people
whose dream it is to be there.
And when you're there,
you understand why.
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