Rose looked up from her story. Her feverish concentration had been broken by music. Someone was singing her song, but that was ridiculous, she had lost her song. For all she knew, here song was six feet under with Jerry. Oh how she wished that Jerry were with her right then. Somehow, she knew that he would make it all right again. And Phil, if only she had gotten there sooner, if only . . . It was all too frustrating.

Rose held Phil's watch tight in her palm. It's steady ticking soothed her. She had not taken it off since that day. Looking back on it all, she realized how selfish she had been, all those times that she had gone to him with her problems, giving nothing in return. The long hours in the kitchen they spent when he had tried to teach her to cook. He had been so patient with her. Time, once again she had been defeated by it. After stopping to look back, time left her in the dust. She knew it would never look back, and she could never catch it.


I was tired. I had been on the road a week, but looked as if I had been traveling a year. Now, I sat at the side of the road, doing my best to hike up my skirt and hitch a ride. The Dead Sled with the licence plate pvp3hpv3p (turn it upside down) and 420 Jerry Bears was stolen a few days before we left.I wondered why I put up with it. Walking wouldn't be easier, but it would be a hell of a lot safer. Each night the family tried to find each other and camp out. The result was usually a bunch of mini camps built around a huge fire. I had gotten there only about half the time.

On a good night, people sat around and sang, got stoned and ate burritos. Even I, who was a "wharf rat", a group of sober dead heads that held meetings at set breaks and passed out yellow balloons, had taken to smoking some pot, dropping some LSD. I knew what it could do, but I was beyond caring. Sometimes, when I was high, I thought I saw Phil reaching out to me. But the high would always let me down before I could reach him. In addition, there were rumors of some bad stuff going around. People were having bad trips more often.

During the day it was even worse. Because, if you were smart, you traveled alone. Most people don't pick up hitch hikers, let alone ten or twenty. I grimaced involuntarily every time I thought of the rides I had taken. Sitting up all night in the bitter wind, going 75 on the back of a flatbed truck. The dirty, sweaty men that had tried to hit on me. Last night I was robbed of fifty dollars and my last joint.

I was dying to write something, anything. My songs, I hadn't worked on them forever, and I didn't even know where "Psychedelic Roses" was. A truck driver probably stole it. Completely lost in thought, I hardly noticed when a truck stopped in front of her. Sighing, I hopped inside.


I awoke with a start. Echoes of the previous night's events danced around me in a deadly waltz. It shouldn't have happened to me. On top of everything else, I shouldn't have had a bad trip:

It had started wonderfully, I was walking hand in hand with Phil in a beautiful garden. We talked about old times as a haunting tune echoed through the field. Gradually, things began to change. We began to argue. It seemed Phil blamed me for his death, (or was it the other way around?) I was so shocked, I was in tears. Phil reached out to comfort me and it seemed that everything was going to be okay. But then, quite suddenly, Phil's watch flew off my neck and raised over our heads. From somewhere, a clock struck 13 o'clock and all the flowers started to grow. They grew brighter and sweeter until they were about to explode. Flowers everywhere started to become distorted, changing into miles of brambles. Frightened, I began to run frantically. Phil reached out to help me, but he was a moment too late. I tripped on a rock and fell to a thorny death. No, I wouldn't sleep tonight, maybe not ever again.