My Los Angeles:
The parched roads are covered in my blood, detailing my many bike accidents caused by their cracked surfaces. Those two-faced hills have a pervasive presence. They protect me from the dense and hot cloud oppressing the Inland Empire, but I am not thankful. This place is singed at the edges, profane, something to look at with disinterested disgust. Here in the searing light where there are no stars, I do not have to justify my mistakes to myself and strangers. I can lie, steal, renege on promises, deface egos, whatever. It is all visible. It is all allowed. Meanwhile, the city eats up my skin and puts me in danger, angry that I am openly exploiting it.
