"We All Hate You, Los Angeles"
is a photography book being released in 2024.

The book is a journey through the first three years of living in LA, which to many, can be a very confusing, wonderful, and strange experience.

These are the neighborhoods, these are the people, and these are the voices I came across.

Dear LA,

Broken, graceful, and oh so exclusive.
It's pure.
It's a new home.

Tired bar maids dry scorched glassed with ripped towels and vacant eyes.

With that, the silent countdown for the bantered throngs to simmer down echoes across the bar.
Off with you now lads.

Slightly erased.
Somnolent curiosity.
Urban campers sweep the pizza shops. It's a brokem poem stuck on repeat.

A room for one, please.

A room to be what you want for a minute. For a lifetime.
They recon a few years in Shakeytown might be what the doctor ordered.

Here we are. We will never be enough. But here we are. And we are wonderful.

Coping with the chaos of LA.
Processing the world thats supposedly scultped and perfected.

The world that has too many voices, too many personalities, and not enough space.

This lonely island I float.
This abandoned part of the woods I scream.

So I had to make you a voice.
I had to pretend we knew each other.
I had to fake I knew my way around.

Dear LA, these are my voices for you, these are your people to me, and these are your noices I named my neighborhoods.

It made me feel home.

He drove throughout the night and into the early morning.
The darkness had shattered in slow-motion and the city was slowly starting to move.
He didn't know where he was going, but it was towards something new and desperately pure.

In the shadows under bridges as fallen brigades. Back into the darkness as the forgotten. Blinded by the lights as we look away and try to forget we ever tried to be like you.

She made him speechless.
No matter his attempts.

The only way she could feel human againwas through the altruistic act of caring.
As a ghost, an outcast, a crazy, her care was never desired.

Sleeping in the midday sun.
We spend our gold among the broken people on Los Angeles Boulevard.

A flower like you only blooms on burning ships.

It had been two weeks, and he was still waiting for her call.

He wanted to show her that he wasn't afraid to live. Something to remind her that she was alive. He was the perfect storm she'd been looking for her entire life.

Yet, she wasn't brave enough to follow along.

Her high pitched chants echoed through the vaccum of the post election she woke up in.
She reminded the freedom figthers of the true fire and youthful excitement they hade once held so close to their hearts.

They told her, that one day she would have to grow up.

But she grew up to understand that there were no obligations to that wisdom.

He closed his eyes, he closed his moutgh. He came for the honey, but returned to a lonely house.

Life on Hollywood Boulevard had made it harder to breathe.

I can't think of anyone else.

Her eyes were locked on the horizon.
"There's nothing but death out there".
For a second she let her sight hit the ground, just to immediately lock back on the blue hazy mountain range.
She smiled, but her lips remained sealed.

We caught each other in an anarchic freefall.

He folds up a crisp white letter.
Now he wants her more than ever.
No.
Now he needs her more than ever.
He plays out their last conversation as if he can go back and course correct the shipwreck.
She said she needed to start over. But she didn't know where. She didn't know how.
She meant everything. And he, nothing.
Love is like nicotine, love is like nicotine.

He was the ghost of Reseda.
Larry, ran a half abandonded community center
tucked in between a Howard Johnson motel and
a neglected retirement home.

He had found his angry  purpose in the world of underground wrestling.

Early on, he knew what kind ot love he deserved and desired.

She watched the cars torch the highway. It was the road to hell, and she couldn't wait to get out there.