A bus drives past, and I’m nauseated by a whiff of exhaust. Then rotting fish. The rancid stench of sewage. Is it garbage day? I’m trapped in the pungent fog, in the dreary suburban-style shops, the rat race of city life. The city, even on the West Coast, has the power to beat us down, to suck us of passion, to crush our dreams.

See What Flowers