Summer has cast it’s leering net over Los Angeles. It is March and should be spring, but spring always passes us over. Our coldest winter evening dropped to 50 degrees; hardly coat weather, but I wore my coat anyway because I knew it may be my only chance. What am I doing here, in the home of eternal summer? Summer is my enemy, my nemesis, the season that ignites the worst of my RP. I check the weather forecast with dread; the numbers exhaust and flatten me. I wish I didn’t have to go outside.
I am a writer, going blind in Los Angeles. This blog is my story of a slow approach to darkness as I traverse through the rubble of urban life. It is what I see in the withering spaces of my remaining vision. It is humor and despair and darkness and light. It is what I witness as the world slowly disappears.
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