The Astral Tether of Memory
In Los Angeles, the rain does not cleanse; it merely suspends the city's filth in a shimmering, iridescent lacquer. I have spent a lifetime tracing the veins of this metropolis, watching the neon signs bleed their electric violets and sulfuric yellows into the asphalt—a chromatic hemorrhage that mirrors the slow, systemic decay of the human spirit. Nothing ever changes; the loop of rain and...
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