Sitting on a bench in Central Park, it’s a Friday afternoon in spring and I’m thinking thoughts in waves, like: just because she’s masc doesn’t mean she’ll top you and perhaps I’d be happier if I was eating a canelé. I come up with an idea for a poem about putting love (money) into things that love you back (not the bank), and I consider writing an essay about why drinking Coke every day gives you clear skin, or how nothing says I’m a lesbian like having a boyfriend, ordering a soy magic, or identifying as a gay man. The late day sun shines through the grove of American elms, komorebi, right onto me, and I recall seeing Eileen Myles earlier today in passing, power-walking along Saint Marks Place. I wonder how long it will take me to get to Kenka after this. Then I think about Chichi and how much I miss her: our Naarm Miscellania-rooftop romance, kissing a masseuse in jeans and kitten heels, dressing fancy in a Megsuperstarprincess kind of way. That night she told me that partying almost always makes sex redundant, and that moving to NYC to make it is over and instead, it’s all about moving to North Melbourne. Life is a single loop looping around. Amphetamines are everywhere. I wish Chichi was here with me. No I don’t. I wish I was a philosophy girl. No I don’t. I wish I was an art girl. No I don’t. Across the grove a baby starts crying. Freud says happiness is the maximisation of pleasure and the minimisation of pain. I want a smack                                                                                                                                                 and I want to smoke a Vogue.