LOS ANGELES — Standing in the dappled sunlight of a Westside city park, Anthony Mazzucca was trying to make a point. The words flew out of him, like birds, a flock of words. He laughed at the thought.
Yet he wondered whether he was being clear. No one — not God, Obama, the devil, his counselor from high school — seemed to understand him.
It was the summer of 2015, and between the voices he heard and meth he had smoked, Anthony was once again slipping away.
