Friday night was so weird. If I believed in any of that stuff I would ask who's the imaginative and playful author of my destiny, but I don't so nevermind that.
I met up with S. who always seems to know just where to go and who to hang out with. We ended up at a party in a very extravagant house somewhere off Mulholland, packed with antique Persian carpets and dark heavy velvet drapes. I don't know who owned it, but everywhere various types of celebrities were drowning their precious plastic noses in powdery white snow. I guess they had a reason to be there.
As the party continued out by the swimming pool someone took out a guitar and started playing. When eventually he got to Elton John's Tiny Dancer, a group of maybe 10 people were singing together, awaiting the sunrise.
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand
And all of a sudden, there he was again. The boy with the soft hair. He was standing alone in the dark on the other end of the garden, shining like the moon. I got up, walked up to him and said hello. Behind me I could here the group still singing.
Turning back she just laughs
the boulevard is not that bad