South Central

A home we've lived in for years. A home that's two hundred years old as the Madeira wine. A father living in mediocrity, never wanting to leave

 but a heedful mother ready to set sail. A home we want to wish away, no longer see or hear the floorboards squeak. A home on the streets of south central. A place where you're under clouds of marijuana and tobacco. A community of nobodies. A neighborhood where you see the benighted on the streets.