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About Los Angeles

I’m pissed tho—too many fakes. Dudes pretendin to pimp, wastin my time. “Who are these idiots?” I mutter. Last week, nearly punched one—skinny rat, smelled like vodka and lies. But then—boom—found a gem. Quiet type, eyes like steel. “You’re not here to talk,” she says. Smart. I like that. Paid her quick, no fuss. “The world’s a machine,” I think—straight from Béla Tarr’s gloom.