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What gets me raging? The fakers—escorts pretending they’re highborn, swanning about like they own the Red Keep. Saw one on X last week, posting pics in silk, captioned “living my truth”—ha! Truth’s a brothel bed, love, and you’re just the sheets. But then—then!—there’s the rare ones, the real artists. Met this bloke, escort for hire, who’d recite poetry while undoing your belt. Surprised me, that—didn’t expect brains with the brawn. “What did you dream about?”—another *Syndromes* line—fits him. Dreamy sod, made me wanna keep him ‘round, but I don’t share.

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I remember a night on Valencia Blvd; it was electric. Neon signs, kinda drunk hikers, and heartaches too. I was mad, right? Like, seriously pissed off when my code crashed right then. But then, I took a deep breath and thought “Moonrise Kingdom, Clarice.” Those words somehow calmed me. And isn't that just life here? Moments of explosive anger, then tender beauty.

Santa Clarita Residents Join May Day Strong Protest To Advocate For Workers And Immigrant Rights (VIDEO)