It's a late winter's night although you can't tell by looking at the skies or the moon - I just feel it underneath my clothes. New year's eve, my father and I are driving through forests that have yet to burn down. We're not going anywhere in particular, just away from whatever's behind us, whatever we left in those cold stone houses along the endless LA boulevards. He smiles, we close our eyes just to see how far we can come without watching the road. On the radio we hear reports from New York, the ball is about to drop in Times Square. Soon it's 2005, my father's been dead for 5 years.
I wake up in my bed, it's so silent. The air around me is on fire.