The Los Angeles River.
It’s the putrid stench of curdling blood.
Through the shallow depth, it cuts deep into our collective psyche.
The rusted moss and slime are nourished by the decaying copses of raccoons, dogs and humans…
People plunge from coincidental bridges spanning across: They suicide.
sometimes, the murderous agents throttle them down,
or they are killed within that very chasm by the hopeless...
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How can I begin to tell you what is in my heart?
How can I begin to tell the story?
I’ve always felt the weight and the burden of the world.
I’ve never enjoyed the lightness of blissful ignorance.
Actually that is not true, it is only recently, in the last few years that I’ve learned the art of meditation. And through this practice I’ve...
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What happened to my emotions? They don't seem to be available right now.
