skyex's soup

This is Los Angeles: a city of neon and plastic, wedged like a round peg into the square hole of California desert that it occupies, constantly creeping outwards and upwards, overstepping its boundaries with all the cocksure justification of Cortés’ conquest of the Aztecs some thousand miles and several centuries away.

The streets are simultaneously dirty and glamorous, deserted and crowded, destructive and violent yet made of muses and light. Fortunes coalesce and turn to coal in the wings of a fly. Don’t blink an eye or it will all pass you by. Life, love, regret. Glitter, glitz, glamour, and gonorrhea are all bred and spread throughout a world that most will never see, can never know beyond a whisper, a flitter, a picture torn from the tabloids.

What do you seek from the city of angels? Here you will find shed and sair, seraphim and cherubim, be possessed or possess yourself, or perchance possess another. The wind is warm, the air thick, the rain acid. Monuments are raised, worlds are realized, fantasies are converted into cold, cold cash. Commodities are worshiped, and worship is commodified. What to see, where to go, when to leave, who to know? Look ye high or search ye low, all that you wish can be won for a price, be it prudish or prurient (though prudence is somewhat out of place).