Some places are too diffuse to take a picture of, taking a picture would ruin the diffusion. I speak at the moment of Los Angeles, the city I was born in so many years ago and just had to leave, returning now as a visitor and seeing how diffuse it is, that diffusion is its beauty.
I drive east along Washington, which diffuses and becomes Venice Blvd, make a left on Crenshaw, a right on Wilshire, and find the little house on Lorraine Ave. where Lea Ann and I lived as caretakers when we first married. There's the little park and the house across the street from it where I played ping-pong with the rich Chinaman who owned the house; he beat me almost every time we played.
I park, get out of the car, sit on a rock in the sunshine. It feels like a perfect 72 degrees. A light breeze moves three white clouds around in the sky, rearranging their diffusions. Los Angeles seems to be on some sort of adventure of diffusion.