The other night I dreamt I was in Old Hollywood. There was a race, a duel. Guns were firing, limousine tires squealing and I did not know what to do. I ran and entered a room full of mirrors and all I could see was me. But it wasn't me because the hair was too curly, the skirt too full, the hat too decorated. I dreamt I was terrified, panicked, and nearly had a heart attack when the door knob slowly began to turn, visible in one of the mirrors before me.

I woke up in a cold sweat and blinked. The digital alarm clock blinked back: 4am. Too pumped to resume sleep, I flicked on the light and wandered over to the desk.

Everyone knows that Hollywood has a history. Of course, everything has a history but Hollywood's history is intimate, alluring, seductive, dangerously beautiful like the vampes in her movies. A sexy disease, reaching all over the world, infecting everyone's mind whether they'll admit it or not. Everyone is equally easily suseptible to this disease.

And yes, this is perfect. This is where everything happens, right here.

It's been said before that the air in Hollywood is poisonous, the night sky a sequined velvet, bright lights blind you to make you think it's real. Some think they've figured out the secret behind this place, the fallacy of the outdoor palace that is Hollywood. They're wrong.

Everything here is real.