at the Roosevelt.

do you see the sun, Andrei?
invitation after invitation on Facebook (add me darlings), but I hate clubs. bodies filled with alcohol; minds as empty as the shot glasses in front of them. thinking they understand life (still no one noticed the lost boy in the corner). we're at the Roosevelt and Hollywood never smelled more sour. money being tossed like the gravel found in your shoe.

the clock is coming to its end. Andrei takes my hand, leads me towards the back door.
we exit gracefully, forever trapped in a hiphop world.