Rabelais In L.A.Matt Cox
Smog had not yet filled the valley when Rabelais, on the run again, asked me to fetch him his bottle. He was too wrapped up in his mumbles: "always a fly on the wall, or around my head somewhere, buzzing..." Focused on my own glass, I had only caught the tail end. "That's the end you want," he said. "The other end is for the fly." So I poured another glass and listened to him talk all night of moving on, of moving West and the sad fact we were already there, drunk beneath a plastic orange tree.
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