The Frequency of Forgotten Souls
Los Angeles is a city of perpetual twilight, where the rain does not wash the streets but merely coats the grime in a shimmering, iridescent lacquer. I have walked these pavements for decades, watching the neon signs bleed their electric violets and sulfurous yellows into the asphalt—a chromatic hemorrhage that mirrors the city's own slow, systemic decay. Nothing ever changes; the cycle of rain...
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