Good night and good morning from the City of Angels.
It’s a balmy night in the City of Angels. I’m writing as I journey home in the darkness.
It’s 70°F, breezy, fog rolling in on the corner of Wilshire and Westwood as the strong floral smell of Jacaranda blooms mixes with the smells of concrete, exhaust, and exhaustion. The articulated 720 buses still creep down Wilshire like mechanical caterpillars.
There is an agitated mentally ill woman twitching and periodically engaging in mysterious rituals on the bench nearby.
I’ve heard it said that the hallmark of Los Angeles fashion is to deliberately look like you don’t care what you’re wearing. With a fake black leather jacket, a studded black belt, a black skirt defying description (insanely short in the front, long in the back), a sparkling Jack Skellington t-shirt, patterned tights (like fishnet, but with a larger geometric pattern), and chunky black and tan twill flip-flops? She’s exemplifying this principle.
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