There is a thing I love about living in LA, and that is the feeling that it will never be mine. I will never own this city. It's just too huge, and my purview too limited. My job, my small social scope, even my carfreedom - all serve to tighten the geographic circles in which I move. Because of this, Los Angeles retains for me a sense of wonder.

And I'm never more blissed out on this wonder than when I ride home after spending time with Timo. I lean my head back and just take in this city that's not really mine. Neon steel concrete glass flash. Crushing cruel powerful pretty promise. The big, beautiful shit show that is LA. It moves me, sappy romantic that I am.

Glitz and grit are indistinguishable in those dark hours, and co-mingle like my emotions. How on earth can I feel so lonely? I just left his arms. What the fuck am I so happy about? I'm exhausted and a week from pay day. What did I do to deserve the amazing people in my life? They definitely don't need my bullshit. 

It's a heady cocktail of melancholy, nostalgia, self-recrimination and gratitude. It gives the best hangovers.