The rain in Hollywood doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slick
Eleven years. I'd been twenty-eight for eleven years. The mirror showed a different man. Gray skin around the eyes. Papery. Like old film left too close to a light. Sores on my arms. Hidden under long sleeves. Months now. I blamed the studio lights. The stress. The cheap whiskey. None wrong. None the whole truth. The truth was under the sink. In the vials. Tiny. Amber. Glowing in the dim light....
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