THE GREAT AMERICAN BUFFETPatrick Cremin

I was waiting for a train at Canal St station when a man walked up to me, his face covered in blood and his lips caked in white powder. He asked me for money. I said sorry. I got off at Penn Station and walked up to 36th street, where i was meeting a friend for dinner at Whitecastle. I ordered the twenty burger pack and the extra large Coke. I couldn’t eat it all.

The salt had ripped the caravans apart that lay half-eaten along the waters edge. The piles of dead fish sat in front of the waves. There was once desire, once a dream to live by the sea. As we drove back to the motel Sarah cried.

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