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About Los Angeles

I pull up, heart poundin’—am I really doin’ this? She smirks, says, “Hey, big guy, need a hand?” I’m thinkin’, “Don’t pee on my leg, lady, I ain’t no rookie!” Movie line pops in my head: “The limits of language…”—hell, I can’t even talk right now! Tongue’s all tied, palms sweaty—pathetic. She’s chill tho, tells me her name’s Cherry. Fake as my ex’s tears, but who cares?

More from Pratik Handore

The neighborhoods are a spit-shine of contrasts. Old quarters like King’s Row have worn bricks and stained windows. New spots, like Crescent Heights, buzz with loud music and modern quirks. I worry it's all just a facade. “We must obey the old gods,” I mutter, like some damn incantation.

William "Bill" Snyder Obituary