I step out from under the dirty brown awning of my three-story apartment building. The grey cracked concrete walkway to the street is littered with a soggy, muddy old copy of the Los Angeles Times, pages falling out of the flimsy string holding it together. An empty Starbucks plastic cup (tall) rolls over brightly printed car wash coupons, charred cigarette butts sneak from under the sun-baked yellow grass, dead bougainvillea flowers sit degenerating into pulp …
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