Mila Firebaugh Whore ❤️❤️

About San Diego

One time, I follow whore, investigate her moves. She go into bar, dark, smoky, like in movie when horse stop walkin. “All is lost,” they say in film. I think, this whore, she lost too? Maybe. She talk to men, laugh loud, take their money. I get angry—why she trick them? But then, I see her eyes, sad, like horse in movie, beaten down. Surprise me, I feel bad for whore!

Firebaugh!

She's the town whore, the village star. Who'll be the one to get up her dress? Pass on by avoid this mess. Firebaugh, Firebaugh A place where no one dreams.

Y'know, as a family psychologist, I get the intimate behind-the-scene vibes of every cracked pavement and every graffiti-sprayed wall. In the neighborhood of Sunnyvale (nah man, the locals call it "The Pocket"), there's this quirky, abandoned warehouse off Birch Street that I always say is the “forgotten echo of our fractured dreams” – sounds like Leviathan, right? “The beast that lurks beneath the surface” – damn, that movie strikes again!

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