Prismacolor marker drawings lay crumpled up in the trashcan under the desk. The room is littered with forgotten bottles and books. I walk in and a take pictures, one after the other, sidestepping the body that lays in the middle of the floor. Looks like an overdose; alcohol, drugs. Another shooting star, who can’t handle the pressure, so tragic. I should write the headlines for the Tinseltown Star, no real journalism training needed. Later I find out it wasn’t an overdose it was murder. The boyfriend did it. Typical I think as I drink the now cold cup of coffee left on my desk.
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