JR and I work unpacking at the back of the ship, shuffling sellers to buyers, taking their books and piling them up to be rifled through.

I get along with JR. I think that he’s a funny guy. He is an actor… and he put on a play not too long ago which he invited me to, but I didn’t go because, for one thing, you had to pay to get in or post a comment regarding it on your social media. I wasn’t prepared to do either of those two things, nor was I prepared to make the trip outside of my apartment because the time that Musette and I get to spend together is precious, and the time that I get to spend by myself is even more so.

I just don’t have time for people like JR sometimes.

While working the station, someone tries selling a Hardcover edition of Rimbaud in French. The cover is woven together with red and black thread. I want it but can’t get myself to throw down the dollar fifty asking price, because what would I do with the book? It would be little more than decoration, just like the old typewriter. There’s no room for nostalgia or imagined magic in this life of currentivism. However, I do end up spending forty-five cents on this other little Paris book that is bound in leather with maps of of an outdated Paris transit system folding out of an appendix of roads and a Polaroid picture depicting a group of old women sitting around a table.

I felt like I was saving the book from something, but surely I was just trying to save myself.

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