|lare|

Atwater Village student of life struggling day by day to make ends meet, Dancing when the lights are out to stop time and enter space, Traveling the dirty pavements of cluttered ant farm freeways, and looking at the smog filled skies of Los Angeles faint sunrise.
Re-living parking garage celebrations, finding paradise in a balloon filled loft, close to the wherehouses where jack met the knuckles of a bald black man. Leaving footprints across baby powdered floorboards, sweating continuously until the last song, we are the new generation of the forgetten nightime club-dwellers, who scatter and dive and twirl until the last beat. The ones found with invitations to Davids on Prince street.