ON GOD
The road out of Los Angeles and into Palm Springs is a road that separates worlds.
Tents, shoddy houses and humanoid creatures shamelessly flaunting the derelict parts of themselves fade into pristinely kept hedges and spotlessness. Where Los Angeles urges its inhabitants to consider their own veiled form of schizophrenia, of a paranoia that forbids even an inkling of imagined solitude, Palm Springs quiets those ideas in a fell sweep. If not for the hum of cars that pass these 1960s post-modernist living sculptures, I’d believe I was alone here. A planet away from society.