LA is an odd town. It goes to bed early, but it never sleeps. The streets are quiet, but the skies are full of buzzing ghetto birds. The air is cool and crisp and clean -- but it'll kill you eventually. You can't stay here; and you can't leave.
LA is full of artists dreaming of steady jobs and lawyers with screenplays tucked in their filing cabinets. It's bright and green and lush and fabulous and filthy and corrupt and covered in garbage. Garbage and palm trees; dirty mattresses and pomegranates.
But tonight feels like Fall. Tonight feels quiet -- except for the gut-shaking bass on the car that just drove past my window. It feels like tonight, maybe, the bad guys took the night off.
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