I remember the days when Sunset Blvd was more than a film, more than a memory. Filled with the beautiful people, the ones gracing Life and Time covers, gently moving ethereal through palm-lined streets. I should know. I was one of them.

Not that long ago, they’d asked me to make a comeback. But obscurity has grown on me. I thrive on darkness more now than I ever did the darkened theater. The silver screen. Laughable now, really. Most of the old theaters are gone, the old stars dead, the only reminder a cement block with a star and handprint. I got mine. I regret it now for the things I lost because of my career. But nothing I regret so much as thinking Hollywood immortal.

Because now it stands withering, dying on Vine. Hollywood is infested with hemlock. And as the last rays sink over Sunset, I sit here. I drink my mint tea, and I sit. And wait. I watch for it to all crumble down, like it’s wanted to, like I have.

Someday it will. So will all of us.