The music doesn’t end; it just circles back on itself, much like your thoughts of the "sweet boy" you left behind on a Venice balcony . Every time the G-Funk synth wails like a distant siren, you press the gas a little harder, but you aren't going anywhere. You’re trapped in a beautiful, cinematic limbo .
The Midnight Drive on the Pacific Coast The year is 1974, though in your mind, time stopped somewhere in the late fifties. You’re behind the wheel of a worn-out 1956 Chrysler Imperial , the leather seats smelling of faint perfume and old tobacco. The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only a bruised purple haze over the California coastline . The music doesn’t end; it just circles back
The distorted guitar lick echoes the "And I Love Her" melody by The Beatles , a ghost of a love song from a different era. The Midnight Drive on the Pacific Coast The
You see him swinging his Parliament cigarette in the rearview mirror, but when you blink, it’s just the flickering neon of a roadside motel. The distorted guitar lick echoes the "And I