Every sunset, Triangle Bangle races the ghosts of L.A. in her beat-up Cadillac, tearing through a forgotten strip behind the Beverley Wilshire. Most people don’t know it was once the Beverley Hills Speedway, but Triangle sees it in the morning haze—ghosts of racers climbing into their old machines, ready to speed around wooden spirals.
Her Cadillac’s paint is a mess of grey and white smears, like a ghostly canvas. The city's skyline blurs as she races, the faded outlines of the speedway and its legendary drivers blend into the smog. These aren’t just shadows—they’re the echoes of a golden age.
Triangle grips the wheel, feeling the city’s noise fade away. In her mind, she’s not just driving; she’s channeling the spirits of those long-gone racers. The old track comes alive, its wooden spirals and turns a surreal mix of memory and reality.
The dawn breaks, sunlight piercing the fog, and the spectral racers fade. Triangle slows down, breathless, her nightly ritual complete. In this moment, she’s part of the city’s hidden history; she is the keeper of forgotten races.
