The Unshrunk
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt wetter. I sat in my office on Sunset Boulevard and watched it hit the window, the way it always did, in diagonal sheets that turned the neon signs across the street into smeared watercolors. On my desk, a man the size of a matchbox was pacing back and forth. He had to shout to be heard, and even then I had to lean down...
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