Ah, Las Vegas, that permanent circus settled between the Red Rocks and the sunrise and the big sky and the fragile lake that quenches the thirst of the entire West. The dam miracle is apparent only in the vacant lots: those blue-air, Dijon-dirt blank spots where the desert bursts through, unchecked by black tar and lawn stones.
A city built on ephemerality: 41.7 million visitors in 2024 alone. All here and then gone, but for their trail of coffee grounds, crumbs, cans, and cash. A map of detritus, a map of existence. Still, Vegas has doubled down on itself. Ice hockey in the middle of the Mojave. Homes bouldering up the ridges. It’s the 24/7 neon. It warms the bones like one last smoldering coal at 4 a.m.
Let’s join the carnival.

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