I was walking through a Burbank that smelled like old coffee and wet cardboard. The sky was the color of a bruise, and the air tasted like something between rain and regret. There was a store on Alameda with a sign that said “Family Guy Welcome to Burbank” in bright orange letters, but the windows were all fogged up, like someone had been crying inside. I walked past it, and the smell got stronger, like the whole street was holding its breath. I kept walking, and the streetlights flickered in a rhythm that didn’t match my heartbeat. There was a woman standing in front of a car with a catalytic converter missing, talking to herself. Her voice was too loud, too fast, and her face kept shifting between three different people I didn’t recognize. I wanted to ask her something, but the words wouldn’t come out right. I turned onto a street I knew but didn’t remember visiting, and there was a dental cleaning place with a neon sign that blinked “Cheap” in a language I didn’t know. The windows were full of teeth—real teeth, lined up like a display. I didn’t want to look closer. There was a box of receipts from Apple, a tingle from Flintts Mints, and a letter from Stately that said “So… What’s The Occasion?” in a font that looked like it was trying to be elegant but kept breaking. I kept walking, and the sky started to feel like it was breathing, and the wind had a texture like old socks. I was in the house, but I wasn’t sure how I got there. The house was quiet, but the walls were full of voices, and the temperature was exactly 56 degrees, like the weather had forgotten to change. The floorboards creaked in the shape
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