Silverlake

Stores with names like "Rags," and "Rubbish." Stores that sell offendingly expensive handbags, vintage retro-modern chairs, hand-blown contorted glass bowls. These pieces arrange themselves on bamboo floors, prim coffee tables, severe shelves, looking bored, effete, a little pained.

This is the worst kind of purgatory; the offhand cruelty of being labeled with the distinct purpose of invoking the meanness of irony (I feel for you, Pilot Inspektor).

And to spend your life feeling like less than what you really are. Until, I suppose, it is all over. And to realize that you were never rags or rubbish all along, but quite the opposite.

This is inanimate Greek tragedy on the eastside of LA.