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"Hello?" Her stressed and tired tones channeled across the telephone wire. "Hi," I replied. "Hellooooo! What is up?" Together with the recognition her voice instantly became mild and easy. "Nothing. Hey, guess what? I need to write a personal narrative. No one knows me well enough to assist, so I thought I'd call you." "A personal narrative, huh? What are you gonna write about?" "I really don't know. That is why I called you. The sole recent life-changing occurrence that springs to mind is...well, you know what it is. That is not exactly what I want to recall as the most profound thing that ever happened to me." I knew she knew exactly what I was referring to. "Hmm. I really don't know; there is tons of stuff you could do. Why don't you write about the period you sang? Yeah, do this!" "Well...I do not know." "How about..." her voice casually carried me with them as I leaned back in my seat and twirled the phone cord around my finger. Our voices transcended the time zones, and for a moment we were side by side about the light-hearted of my bed , lost in language, staring in the glow-in-the-dark solar system spiraling its way round my area. I laughed at some of her ideas, and the question was left handed as we moved on to other subjects. She began to tell me about her weekend and the escape she had gone . My eyes wandered around my dorm room, still looking for ideas. Finally, as Gene's broken paragraphs filled my mind, my perceptions rested on the pictures of two girls - one with black, curling hair and deeply tanned, muscular arms, and another slightly smaller, more light, more light - sticking their heads out from behind road-signs or outstretching their arms from a shopping cart. I awakened, and...