send 

you half-sit, half-lean against a lamp post in midtown. you try your best to shut out the sexy sax man song the busker has been playing for an hour. he’s pretty good, which means you pity him a little for how dead his soul must feel.

you wait for a friend’s call. you text the sf moma number over and over again. 

send me shrimp, you write.

they have no shrimp art.

send me alabaster, you write.

nada.

send me china, you write.

stop.

send me china, you write.

and you realize how fervert it is, that text. and you write it again and again.

send me china.

and again.

send me china.

and again.

send me china.

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