My mom sent me a link to this blog post a fellow wrote about the place I grew up in. It’s really weird to read an outsiders view of a place you took for granted a lot of the time. He likens the bridge I used to poke moths in to the Greek myth of Orpheus, the street itself to zen proverb, the flora to classical paintings, a random old bench as evidence the place is inherently magical. Well, it is magical. I think about Hidden Valley everyday. I think if I ever happen to die that will be where I chill out for the rest of eternity.