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June 4, 2001
The car had some trouble as we drove up the inclines; still all I could see where the golden hills & blue blue sky. We sat outside on the guardrail posts & listened to nothing, listened to the ant-cars on the Golden Gate, listened to the rocks we kicked down the cliff. The air was cold when it moved, but when it was still I just thought: This. This is what it means to be young. And by the time the thought had escaped my ears, I had already grown older.

Behind my shoulders, though, the trees were still green.