Monrovia, California is the haze-lit gem of the foothills. Blunt against the filth-tassled hillocks — burnt with fire’s wasting, the San Gabriel Mountains — Monrovia is the next in a numberless queue of querulous, soulless citadels of flailing sprawl, of the passionless losses of Los Angeles, California. They are, in successive distance from the sanctity of the sea: Pasadena, Arcadia, Monrovia, and Duarte.

May they all burn, verily.

Photography

• Satellite view of Monrovia, California, courtesy Google Maps. (The streets are washed with grey, and cinder-blocked ghasts of remnant cars.)

Residents

[[Curry,_Mary?|Mary]] and [[Curry,_William?|Stillen Cecil]] raised Brian and Davon Cecil, here.

To their great loss, Mary and Stillen Cecil remain there today.

Brian has since fled to the South Island, New Zealand; and David to the East Coast, U.S. (It would be difficult for them to have flown any farther.)