The idyllic mayhem of two cultures colliding just doesn’t seem as funny anymore.

The self is a smokescreen.

My outsides are precise and unreliable. The illusion of self is increasingly purposeful. A sort of erasure. Inside of me, a flex. A fervor. I feel invented.

In the movies, God is an actor just like everyone else.

Los Angeles has no seasons, so it’s kind of hard to keep track of time here. The lines between spring, summer, fall, and winter all blur like my vision. I get stuck on repeat for different measures of eternity.

In Los Angeles, everything is 100% organic, except the people.

Nighttime’s a gameAnd I know how to win.All it takes is a winkAnd my sad Cheshire grin.

You were trying to find a way to get rid of yourself,but you were still left with your mouth.

I like people with weak will and bad taste.It feels like anything is possible.

I’m not bilingual, but I am fluent in therapists’ jargon.