red his Chevy, breezing away from the coast. As the Camero climbed toward the heart of the redwoods, the young man looked with flare. He traveled up the bare twisted road of Highway 5. Its edges seemed to crumble dangerously as he pulled around the sharp switchbacks.
             The young man pulled his Camero into the check-in gate. He held his elbow against the red door and rested his head against his hand, palming his cheek. As he waited to be helped he looked at the scenery. The redwoods lay thick, with huge stems blossoming a cluster of green. A sign posted to one spelled Richardson Grove 1876.
             "Yes. your name please?" The woman sat in a little house with a small teller like window. She wore greyish green clothes. A tag placed by the shirt collar read "Anne Vansykln, Richardson Grove."
             "Olin Hill," he said, as he gazed toward the redwoods. He was still stuck in the thinkers pose. He didn't even look at her exquisite looks.
             "Pretty aren't they?" She said as she smacked her chewing gum with her slender tongue. The look she gave was not classy by any means, yet it was resoundingly sweet: childish like an 'imperfect-perfect'. Yet Olin did not reply, he just sat in his pose. Then she said you may go.
             Olin stepped on the gas and relaxed his pose. He gazed at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Where his hand had rested (upon his cheek) a beat red pimple gouged in his face.
             Olin parked his car in front of a huge redwood
             ...