Seven o’clock on a Friday night. I sit in my dark car, staring out at the monotonous open and shut of the Lassen’s market doors. I imagine that to an onlooker I must appear something like a voyeur, watching customers fondle voluptuous produce in selection of the perfect piece. I don’t know how much time has passed since I finished my shopping. Waiting patiently beside me in the passenger seat sits one solemn golden potato and a loose garlic bulb, while the filet mignon I spent too long carefully selecting has already begun to sweat. I cannot bring myself to put the key in the ignition and drive away. The knowledge that in all likelihood, the night holds nothing of fortune or value keeps me transfixed like a moth to the welcoming lights and brightly colored shelves. There was once a time when Los Angeles was alive with promise each and every night—but I hardly remember it like that now.