It's at the end of the week - at the end of a hot week - that one realises that the flowers in one's study at home have wilted beyond repair. A week ago, these were dark crimson gladioli; now - at least, before I threw them out - they've morphed into something more purple and sinister. One also knows that it's the end of the week because it's party night outside, somewhere in - well, I'd like to say Silver Lake, but for accuracy's sake, the other side of the road is East Hollywood. It's one of those nights with low clouds, so the city lights are bouncing off them, making everything look unmistakably slightly clammy and foreign.
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