I stand upon the terrace of a house high in the Hollywood Hills, gazing out over the emerald slopes below and the vast expanse of Los Angeles stretching into the distance. A gentle September breeze, half sunlit, half veiled in cloud, caresses my face and stirs my hair. From this tender touch of wind against my skin, an indescribable rapture flows into me.
I close my eyes for a moment, and behind my lids, a miracle of white and crimson light swirls and merges. When I open them again, I step from the terrace into the living room, whose doors open directly onto the view. I sit at my desk, while through the half-open window that bridges the terrace and the room, a fragment of that same breathtaking vista still lingers.
My fingers dance across the keyboard, and with each stroke a word is born. I reread the sentence I have written, and a sweetness of profound feeling floods my being. Once more, I close my eyes, and this time the solitary eye that revealed itself to me years ago returns. The very eye from which the new story of my life began. Images unfold before me, moments from the years that have passed, each one the threshold of an event that shaped the course of my existence.
