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'For the longest time I mostly just looked. I surveyed the outgrown, the underused, the inherited, the once-wanted unwanted things. It was summer and the plastic, glass, and ceramic baked on white sheets in the afternoon heat. What I picked up was often hot to the touch.

It sometimes took weeks, sometimes longer, to settle on an object and then to find it again. The settling was easy. I found things beautiful. I got a particular type of loneliness just by looking at certain things, and of course that’s how I knew. After about a dozen or so stops I’m sure you could start to see it too: a kind of brightness of an item that’s losing its luster, not just where you were, but all over.’

— from this

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breakfast in bed; salads for six

there’s comfort in feeling you have a place that you belong, a place that you go. like work, like another house, where the sweeping up feels more a gesture of goodwill. what can i say, i am great at the interim. at borrowed clothes, and the morning routine that speaks of dual lives. at half a home there, not mine, and half a home here, mine, my personal museum of sentimental artifacts, rations for the work day, scents. i love it here and yet there, existence is light.

things in order. shelves for all my books. sentimental objects discarded. intention and purpose unencumbered by objects. as if that were possible.

i used to think that without these things, i’d have no sense of who i was and so am, history and memory would be displaced and things would fall apart. it’s the fear that’s kept me living alongside 10 year old journals and 20 year old books; that without these to light the way i’d lose all sense of what’s important. it’s possible that what was important isn’t quite so these days.

i purchased another pair of shoes. used, for the patina. i will be forever restless. this is the most peaceful i’ve been in awhile. it’s been six nine months.

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