They laugh when I say I like it here— like I’ve confused heat with holiness.
But there’s something about a place that doesn’t lie. The Valley never pretends. It just spreads itself— wide, cracked, sweating— beneath a sky that doesn’t give a damn.
It’s in the way the sun leaks down the liquor store wall at 6:42 p.m., in the power lines holding hands across boulevards.
Out here, no one chases dreams. They work beside them. The dreams drive for Instacart. They sell roofing. They play synth in a band still deciding what to call itself.
God lives in the hum of a laundromat on Tuesday afternoons. No one notices.
Keep your oceans. The Valley doesn’t need a view. It is one— burned and aching and alive. All blister and bloom.