Hollywood is sometimes referred to as The Dream Factory, but to me it looks, smells and feels more like a nightmare. I've scratched the shiny surface looking for imperfections for as long as I can remember, only to find nothing at all. The traces of shattered illusions and broken dreams always seem to wash away so quickly, like dirt from the streets during heavy rainfalls.
This winter I escaped from the plastic and landed in New York where my mother has an apartment, paid for with blood money (or so I'm told) and filled with precious artifacts from a past life. Here I feel safer amidst designer dresses and frayed books, where the memories of a childhood crush no longer seem so intrusive. I sometimes dream of burning forests along deserted roads where we're driving in the middle of the night, me and the father I lost when I was 12 and still afraid of the dark.