I’m in the Alps, somewhere in Europe. It’s a cool, clear day in late winter. The snow is thick on the ski slopes, ice with a faint dusting of powder. It’s about ten in the morning. I’m at the top of the mountain, and it’s bitterly cold. I can see for miles in every direction, and there’s nothing but snow and mountains and sky. There’s a red run in front of me, and it’s at least three miles long. I’m wearing skis, of course. I’m alone, the slopes are clear, my boots fit, and the light is perfect.
I push off, and a short distance down another piste joins the one I'm on. There's someone coming down it, at the same insane pace as I'm going. We race each other to the bottom, non-stop, where we find a small bar serving hot food and cold drinks. We take off our masks, and it's Eliza Dushku.
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Date: 2003-06-28 05:42 pm (UTC)I push off, and a short distance down another piste joins the one I'm on. There's someone coming down it, at the same insane pace as I'm going. We race each other to the bottom, non-stop, where we find a small bar serving hot food and cold drinks. We take off our masks, and it's Eliza Dushku.