It’s waiting for you in the window at Sunset Music.
“A secret,” says San Francisco, in a stage whisper loud enough for every realtor to hear. Good luck with finding yourself a moldy little hovel, dear evictable friends.
The Museum’s new branding.
Dear The Sunset: yours must be an extremophile’s optimism. Otherwise, it is the faint funk of melted cheese that clings to your fingers, a whiff of toast and nut-brown crisp. Surely the insides of your pockets smell of quality grillgrease, but do you care? Not one whit.
