the wrongs of the world hit worse in this, the end of time. unavoidable as the wind itself. empty prayers spewed by ghoulish liars protected by podiums are amplified by the airwaves they protect & control. only a few could care at this point. i’m not sure which is more powerful—gold, guns, or denial.

during the day it’s practically impossible to hide from the sun in los angeles—a great irony compared to the night, when the only illumination is electric. the light pollution sprawls for miles around hollywood.

these are tiring times. words, shapes, sounds. none seem to matter now. what does that say for life, for time? for all that’s left of us?