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Kate Clover

The moon, hanging ominously in the sky, illuminates puddles of gasoline rainbows dotting Sunset Boulevard.  Solitary street rats dart out of shadows and disappear again into the neon night. Car horns blare, night people laugh loudly in their private worlds. In the distance, the shattering glass of a dropped vodka bottle echoes off the walls of a dank underpass. The rains have come and the rains have gone. A cool eeriness envelops Los Angeles. 


Kate Clover sits hunched over the desk in her tiny room. Scrawled on the sheet in front of her: “It doesn’t matter what you say to me/ It doesn’t matter because I want to believe.” Belief in self, belief in the eradication of histories, belief in love, belief in hate. In time, these words will be set to fiery punk rock n roll and burned on the altar; an offering, an invitation to all other would-be believers: The grim-faced outcasts, the leopard-print lovers, the glamorously destitute. 


She leaves her room and steps out into the long, black night. A beat-up, old Toyota sits parked at the curb in front of her apartment building. Inside wait the gang of musicians she leads; the grizzled, angelic boys. Spent cigarettes are flicked out of windows as she climbs in. They peel off, heading towards their grimy practice space where they will spend the next several hours repeatedly tearing through her songs.


The moon, dropping ever lower into the black, peers out from behind dark clouds. Kate Clover is back in her tiny room, scrawling more words onto more sheets of paper. Poems which will eventually form the words that will comprise her debut album. She is taking her time, doing it her way. Outside the car horns continue blaring. The street rats and night people continue on their paths of elegant decay and the sun starts to slowly rise over Los Angeles. 

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