It's 12:10 a.m. and I'm at work; having finished what I had come to do, I was checking my email and this site.
Apparently the timer in the building is set to turn off the lights at midnight; they flickered at 12:02, a warning I guess, and have just now gone off completely.
Am currently very thankful for the glow of the monitor, without which I could not see to find my way out of this damn office.
Passed a huge car pileup on the way here, on the freeway, right at my offramp. It took up four lanes, pieces scattered everywhere. No police had arrived yet; just two large trucks (one rig and one cement truck); a sportscar, two Honda-type things, and one unrecognizable item that once was a car but now resembled a crushed beercan (silver), folded in upon itself precisely where the driver's seat was located. I saw people huddled around a prone figure on the shoulder.
The figure was moving, gesturing with their arms, and I took a deep breath and kept on driving. It's kind of a sick thing, the way we all move on quietly, like people who've stumbled into a funeral, or into a church--silenced, cowed, barging lamely and awkwardly into some private moment, unable to pretend, for that brief time, that our car windows shield us from from the lives of others.
I'm just fucking full of deep thoughts. Jesus.
Los Angeles, possibly, can trick you into thinking everything is a scenario, everything is a narrative, everything is an anecdote, a story to be told.
Maybe some things aren't...