Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Good Times, Val Thorens 1985

I'm lying on my back on hard, packed snow, laughing a stream of clouds into the clear night air. "I'm fucking American," I shout. The French man is kicking me in the side, but I don't feel anything. Cafe tables are scattered around me like toys. And the girl I'm with is pulling my arm to get me up. I stay glued to the snow. I don't think I'll ever know why.

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