Fucking hell in Palm Springs… California is burning. The city is a fucking oasis in the middle of the desert. It’s so hilarious to think that the last square miles of living nature are transformed into a dead city. Dead as hell. Palm Springs is full of dead people.
Or… senior people.
Or… weird people.
Or… fucking ghosts of Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope.
Palm Springs is a fucking ghost town.
And I’m always saying fuck because I need to. I can’t handle the pressure.
Palm Springs radio… the music from the seventeen’s… Donna Summer and shit. “I feel loooooooooooooooove… I feel loveeeeeeeeeee”.
I understood that night that “F” in “110ºF” stands for FUCKING not FAHRENHEIT.
It’s midnight and we still feel the 110º Fucking degrees.
In the beginning I thought that the heat would stop burning me alive after the sunset. But… I guess I was completely wrong!
The temperature stays the same. The same fucking 110º F degrees.
It’s night in the endless dead desert.
It’s night in the colossal mountains at west.
The same 110ºF degrees.
I’m floating in the pool. Looking at the stars.
I’m still sweating. I still feel the heat, like a fever.
On the other side of the pool the ghosts of Frank Sinatra and Bob Hope talk about stupid stuff. RAT PACk and stuff.
In the Jacuzzi Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe smoking cigarettes.
Fucking ghost town.
In this f night in Palm Springs, I do not know for sure if these people were ghosts or seniors. But for sure the sky was full of stars.