The Disillusionists. cont'd...

Now I'm lying on the couch, pining for big skies and wondering if those are stretch marks on my toes. I'm imagining that a move to the country would cure all my woes - I'd drive up to the place with a rented truck and load all my shit in the back and hit the fuckin' road y'all know what I'm sayin'? Maybe open a bar somewhere or maybe even get a job. Money always seems to find me and everything would be fine and dandy.

Looking around, I realize I've already got about fifty heavy boxes of crap from the last move, in fact, most of it I'm not entirely sure what it is and maybe if I put it into storage this place would seem a lot larger. The furniture was worn outta shape in a few places but what I mean to say is, how did I manage to accumulate all of this shit? The stacks of boxes literally block access to areas of my life and like, how limiting an existence it is. I should dump it all on the curb... nah, too much like work. There's a photo on the wall it's I haven't seen it in ten years but I only hung it up there last month and look how young I am.

At the bottom of one stack there's a shoebox full of receipts for meals long eaten and forgotten... the dates and places a few of which no longer in business. Had I been expecting an audit? Boxes of books never read could go to a used book store and a numbness... just kind of standing there...

The door buzzer wheezed. Shit.

"Hullo?"

"It's me. May."