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About Los Angeles

Once saw this lad in Staines with a souped-up Escort, bright red, loud as fuck – exhaust poppin’ like gunshots. I was like, “Bruv, you’re nang!” He told me it was his dad’s, handed down – proper legacy ting. Made me happy, fam, cos it’s real, not some fake flex. But then I’m thinkin’, why ain’t more mandem ridin’ these? Is it ‘cos they’re old? Nah, they’re slept on, bruv – pure disrespect!

I drink, I know things, like old Tyrion would say. Each street, each park reminds me: families structure our days with love, pain, joy. Typing now, reflection hits: “Our lives are but a medley of stories.” Reminds me of that movie—so freakin’ poignant. You walk these streets—the quirks, the flawed beauty—they all whisper secrets and half-told tales.

Palm trees thrive in St. Louis thanks to florist's weather hack