The White Children
The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash things clean. It just makes the dirt slicker. I stood under the bridge over the L.A. River and watched the water rush by, black and fast, carrying with it all the things people had thrown away in this city that had thrown me away first. Four kids behind me in the darkness, breathing like little wolves. They weren't wolves. They were something worse. They...
0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews