A morning awakes to pounding temples - reminder of the night's lack - telling oneself: it's always the last time. Cold sweat, outstretched mornings turn to afternoons; cutting quick from morning to afternoon time is seamless, and seem-less. Coffee shop jolts off-set by meaningless conversations; carnival fears, planned trips Western Europe, hidden cigarettes, and forced dreams on paper. Perhaps other cities drone on in the day, pass slowly by night, but no city drags with the lethargic daily hangover of the Ciudad de Los Angeles. A time was born when they'd sit around, in like sleeves and reasonable arms, applauding the environment, characterizing it as a place to be, but never to stay. Rare a dream, born in the age of gilded faces, left unfulfilled. A dollar's worth bought a dollar's share - not so anymore, with the feint of the devil's snare, became a grim to bear. Hours spent, isolated from truth, and the witness to change gritted its teeth, passive to action but paned to normalcy. And then, we wind awake, slumberous in the mid-day, non-invasive sun. Caustic-carelessness straps our shoes to the boardwalk where so many, and so few die in silence, without care for no one even knew we were there.