The door is locked. The curtains are drawn. The entrance hasn’t been swept in a while — you’ll find a few outdated pages from the LA Weekly, a scratch-off lotto ticket, a beef jerky wrapper — and someone scribbled a fairly unimaginative obscenity on one of the black tiles.
But that awning makes me think this place still has some sass. She’s not victimized or beaten down. The old girl is still wearing her red lipstick.
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