“I’ve been trying for some time to figure out what it is that make up the culture of the Mojave Desert. It is distinctly not Southwest. If you’ve spent any time in my beloved desert you know that Adobes, Georgia O’Keef, and Hopi Jewlery really have no place here. The Mojave is a land of decay, of destitution, a land of death. It is the land of those who know how to survive on starvation. You are more likely to find a crank eyed meth addict - eyes full of dreams, likely to be shot by reclusive paranoid protecting his hoard, or to be left wondering “what the fuck” by a tree covered in trash or a wall made of tires, than you are to stay here. Nobody stays here, we are all gone. Some the way of the highway, some the way of distortion.”
At 7:08 p.m. a caller reported a possible domestic dispute in process on Town House Lane, saying she could hear a man yelling and that it was an ongoing problem. The responding officers reported that there was no domestic dispute, but that a man had turned his radio up and was singing very loudly in a different language.
ひとつ ふたつ みっつ 涙 こぼれた
Snapped my friend in a park.
Was concentrating on the shapes and contrast.