A car stops to let me cross. I am going nowhere in particular, and maybe the driver is going nowhere in particular too, or maybe he is going to work. As the driver stops for me, I slow the flow of time, an infinitesimal act of rebellion against a world filled with so many notions of purpose frantically zipping about town, stalled impatiently in traffic, charging forward, brisk strides, senses merely registering amorphous obstacles to avoid them, imagination stalled on a goal. Is there a difference between cruising without purpose and driving to a destination? Los Angeles can be a dystopian future, overpasses twisting and turning, stagnant car-rivers, barren and lifeless like The Day the Earth Stood Still. Yet, at the same time, Los Angeles can be a beautiful city, a rocket ship on a rooftop, a pile of tires by the roadside, massive art deco bridges built of concrete and steel flying over industrial yards, through hillsides. Brightly colored flowers burst through the cracks on a sidewalk. I wonder how the cracks came to be – earthquake, fire, water. I wonder how the flowers can survive. A vibrant mural among warehouses. The city is filled with unexpected splashes of color, more beautiful for the ruins they inhabit. Los Angeles is a dystopian future, if you came from a sheltered past, but hope surfaces in this city.