JESS CONNELLY
It is a little after 2:50 A.M. and central Los Angeles is still deep in its slumber. Blanketed by a foreboding dark indigo punctured by very faint beams of light strewn across the night sky, framed of course by the famous lined palm trees that are at this point just mere shadows dancing gently to the chilling command of the 19 °C winds. Save for the handful of cars whirring through at a modest speed at the intersection of Normandie and Mariposa, it is practically a ghost town, where every rustle and crunch is enough to whip one into still submission.
Jetlag has gotten the best, where I figured, the sensual melodic conversations that caresses the senses in her familiar lilt and cadence would drown out the stillness of city of angels way past its bedtime.
