The Canyon.

it's a small lake, and when we got there we found out our campsite had been pre-empted by college boys in fashion-faded polo shirts and their american-eagle girlfriends. so we found another spot. i just kept thinking how much i wanted to go out in a rowboat on the water, and how much i'd rather be back in the car driving the canyon road and listening to songs about jane.

i never knew that boxes of brazilian wafers made good kindling. nobody was going to eat them anyway-- the aftertase was horrible. they made the smoke too sweet, but somehow my hair managed to filter that out... just smelling like normal, sharp, spicy wood smoke.

i lay on my back on the concrete path and looked up at the stars. i made up my own constellations, like astrid in white oleander. they seemed so much closer up there in the mountains... and it made my throat squeeze shut to think that i was closer to those stars than i probably ever would be to you.