The Script in Blood
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the grime slicker. I stood on the corner of Hollywood and Vine at midnight, watching the neon from the coffee shop across the street bleed into the wet pavement. The sign said OPEN in letters that had burned out one by one, so that now it read O_P, which felt appropriate. Everything in this town was open except the truth. My...
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