This entire area is just strange. “Burbank?” “I never eat in Burbank.” An airport hotel. Vast stretches of that specific nothingness of Inner California. Over the hill from the precious people and not far enough out to be nature. Meat shops, strip clubs, tire service and apartments that look and feel like the end of days. A suspicious guy follows me and looks as if he has the police on speed dial. I find a trail of dead leaves in a parking lot and wonder if I’ll be arrested for being creative.