The clouds were thick and selfish. The Shakespeare had taken its toll. The Van Man was in the midst of his third straight production in as many many months and felt the confusion set in. Money was low. His mind was worn. A soggy, paper bag of possibilities. He was happy to act. Unhappy to be nothing. It seemed a spiral into a bright pitch blackness. For the first time in a very long time, Van Man thought seriously about using. The Powder and Sid seemed like good choices. But Boy called. He had never tried Boy, but the thought was heavy on his mind. A creep up his arm and a swarm onto his brain.
Then Van Man sipped his coffee and landed on his feet. He lived in a van and there was only so much of a cliché he could stand to be. Where's the fucking Sun?, thought Van Man. LA was no fun without The Sun. There seemed no point to it.