Clouds loom like the final curtain of a long running opera, as a mist form on the boulevard that just hours ago seemed so alive with possibility, hope and anticpation. The packs of hungry wolves have retreated to after hours spots and hang outs all over the city to lay the final claim on their intoxicated prey from the seemingly endlesss hunt in various bars and clubs they see as their hunting grounds.
Suddenly, it begins, a faint echoing through the many historic buildings that seem like mausoleums
in memory of broken dreams. With stars lining the sidewalks like headstones, the sound becomes a melody that hums the testimony of pain and tragedy, of loss and suffering.
A sillhouette appears, a woman stops and asks for a light to a cigarette thats loosly packed and bent from being in her hip pocket as she walks the desolet and damp streets, she cups the flame revealing an old tattoo that reads "Louis" in a dingey gun metal bluish ink, an old flame perhaps?
She takes the first hit and gives an exhale that is a mixture of a release and a sigh, she says thank you and as she turns to continue her trek through her own personal hell, the scent of several screwdrivers too many still lingers and questions fester. Who was she? Where is she going? Will our paths ever cross again?
The fog thickens creating an almost suffocating atmosphere.
The haunting ballad grows near, the tune is clearer now.
The melody, a tune being played with what seems to be no end in sight. The musician, an older black fellow that leans up against a steel rolled down gate to a long forgotten sex shop, on the gate a spray painted scene of the citys glory days featuring legends like Clark Gable and Rita Hayworth, the days where shear looks alone could not compensate for the more sought after comodity of talent.
As the gentleman continues to play, the very sultry sounds of our very own pied piper conjours up thoughts about all the untold struggles and oh so never realized dreams of fame and success.
The only one that may know of any of these stories, is lost, on a stage that only his mind can create, in front of a crowd, only his eyes can see, tellinga long and lonesome story of the thousands of shattered dreams, just like his, that came before him.
Through a dull and batterd shadow of a saxaphone he tells us their stories in a rhythm that leads ones mind on a journey through these haunted streets of Hollywood...
