V.S. PT4 CH10 // One Night⭐️🌙 in Hollywood - Swiss.FM

When we got back to the city of dreams, I dropped Hollywood off and decided a little space might be best (I knew the 'tude had not subsided, and her wrath was not a force I particularly enjoyed invoking)

Nevertheless, I took a slight detour instead of crashing at the crib. I turned into this little pocket under the blossom bridge known as "Green Crossing." It was no place extraordinary, just one of the less run-down student apartments in the city. But I wasn't there to dive back into my "college experience." The actual attraction was the train tracks ahead. Barricaded by a steel picket fence and a miniature Narniac rainforest set between the extended legs of the cement centipede that arched above. I'd often come here after a nightcap and ponder the endlessly woeful possibilities of my demise. I'd put the car in park and imagine a sweet release exuding from my body. I could hear the temperate crush of my tiny little Honda Accord yielding to the weight of the grit-engraved gravel that would finally permit me a blissful descent into scorned sands. It always sounded like such a fantastic idea: submitting my resignation to the conductor of this train to Narnia, but it always seemed so selfish.

The truth is I've always viewed my life as if it were a mere tool for others. It only had value if it had functional utility for another. Ironically, I never could find that window of opportunity where I was utterly defective goods (I know, very arrogant). But now that I think about it, that night in the car was my golden opportunity. Because that night was the beginning of the end, and deep down, I knew it. I could feel our makeshift heart ripping at the seams… well one half was cannibalizing the other. Our co-dependence had become corrosive, and there was no way to sanctify the damage. Our love was officially star-crossed and tainted. Unfortunately, as this realization waned on my heart and my eyes grew heavy, a thick blanket of denial comforted me as I laid back in my '07 Accord.

I had the chance to amputate this… lovesickness at the sort—and I had the power to right the good ending. Subconsciously, I did it. But in reality, I was still holding on to hope, and that persistent delusional denial was the final ingredient I threw into the cauldron to make this curse complete.

I woke up at 5:05AM to the sound of my engine exhaustedly bucking and spitting. Reacting ferociously to my feet had imprinted a giant indent into my gas pedal. I lifted it immediately as my heart raced, and for the first time, I was frightened by the implications of my actions. I lifted the phone from the cupholder and immediately texted Hollywood, apologizing before sharing this lyrical idea that had sprouted out of a dream. It was simple but filled with the yearning denial I held so close to my heart. It was drenched with the nostalgia of minor me in my Massachusetts home, locked in my room shooting a game of love-me-love-me-not hoops with my personal closet-side court (despite how this is worded, I was always a little Cassanova, and I relate my "way too young to be in love" success to this endless game; shooting my shots as if every shot made was one extra point of admiration from my crush of the week). I digress, the song was everything my love life had been, and everything it had become, and this one line constantly wrung in my head — even before I read the irresistible charm and lush from Stella Gibbons' illustrious novel. The lyrics had snuck into my mind before the globe-renowned "Crazy Rich Asians" took over my Netflix watch history. Italian went a little something like

"I've been
In love before
but never…
The heart is [it's an f-word for sure]
… mind slips
… [maybe an idea about nostalgia] moments, moments was the word… anyways back to it
That I dared to miss
(… summers…something, something… Swiss)
Now I'm in 
This crazy, stupid mood 

Fuck it, I forgot the words. But it'll come back to me one day. It has to; I already promised Mrs. Hollywood it would be a hit. A promise is a promise; we keep those.

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