On the television, a race-car circles a track three times,
and you're on the grad-school road with me again,
but in three weeks it'll crash and burn like the car outside
Chateau Marmont where two girls in pink waitress uniforms
pole dance to the Foo Fighters and
a James Van Der Beek look-a-like splays hungover on the bed.
Four high-heels are in the air
and a balloon deflates from the corner. But life isn't
a Sophia Coppola movie and cars don't drive without gasoline.
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