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About Los Angeles

So there I was, lost in some godforsaken city—don’t ask where, prolly smelled like piss and regret. Needed a guide, not for mountains, but for... y’know, *company*. Streets twistin’ like that faun’s maze, eyes everywhere, judgin’. Found this lass, right? Skinny, eyes like Ofelia’s—haunted, but sharp. “Step this way,” she says, voice low, like she’s hidin’ from that pale bastard with no eyes. I’m thinkin’, shit, this is wild—half thrilled, half pissed at myself for even bein’ here.

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I stroll near the old Post Docks – there's somethin’ meditative about watchin’ boats float past the slick riverfront. Sometimes, I'd just sit on a worn bench at Bliss Park. Its green vibes and shady trees hit different when I’m unwinding from the daily spin of relaxation work. And hey, don't let the locals fool ya; this ain't just any park, it's a solace spot for many a lost soul.

The Post wins Pulitzers for Trump rally shooting stories, editorial cartoons