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The Death of Unicorns.

I can hear the loneliness as I walk down an empty street. On my journey, I notice a puddle of makeup brushes, lipsticks, eye palettes...items seemingly from a woman's purse discarded on the pavement like a vagrant. Items that could have been on a vanity, lying chaotically and searching for stability after a drunken night. 

What scene could this have been?

A little further, toys that still had a touch of sheen; out of place with the rubble, in large quantities conspiring with green garbage bags for shelter.

Items, laying there as if someone has taken cherished relics from a child's dream and didn't care where they had a heap as if to say 'get out.' Left as if by commentary: 'where should I go?'

Among the random assortment of pristine possessions (note, there is something unsettling about something "pristine" lying broken on the oxymoron, I know), a plush white unicorn with a purple main lies helplessly on its back, a single track mark on its side.

And then it hit me. The death of unicorns. A New York eviction in the time of Corona.

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