It’s a strange place, the valley.

I cruise down Magnolia in the land boat and take a left; I must go deeper.

Residential streets blend into strip malls that blend into industrial areas and back again.

The steady glow of city lights are replaced by dim street lamps and the sporadic neon of shopping centers.

I am on the edge of Los Angeles; the run off from the city of angels.

I take a pull from my bottle and turn onto any number of nameless streets that pepper the grid.

The only people I see walking the streets are the youth inhabiting this flat, concrete desert. Their faces are hidden under dark hoods, but their gait is unmistakable.

My windows roll down. The night is sticky warm. I can feel the ozone on my skin collect until a flash of lightning dances in the distant clouds to the east.

There is no sound save for the occasional pumping beat of muffled music from a passing car.

The flow of this place at night is different and slightly backward. I may be able to follow the synchronicity from one checkpoint to the other, but I still get turned around in the space between.

Another pull from my bottle warms my gut. I toss the rest in the parking lot of a darkened computer store.

I wake from my trance by a lit police cruiser that flies past me in the oncoming lane.

I’ve yet to find the pulse of this place, but I will…

Henry Holliston

Sherman Oaks, CA