It was the night of the third month when I was eighteen years old, and I was traveling from Seattle to California. Once full of ideals, once intoxicated, once in the limelight, once in ruins. The city is located next to the Atlantic Ocean and has a calm and slightly sad look. The end of the street echoed with Italian ditties, filled with the sound of the waves, the green leaves of the beech trees fell, and the strong wind squeezed through the gaps between the trees, making a sound like weeping.
There is no end to the rain on the West Coast of the United States.