Slowly and organically goes the move. Let the scene deteriorate as naturally as you can. The bookshelf must be next. I don’t think our landlord likes us leaving our shipwreck on the curbside. I think he bagged the cabinet. Good luck bagging the bookshelf, buddy. It’s quite a bit bigger. Still missing that one shelf though. Forever and always as it fades away, a memory. The desk has got to be the last to go. I don’t know how we’re going to get the dresser down the stairs. It’s a different sort of piece. Not detachable. Deal with it buddy. You cost us 1,300. Piece of shit goblin.
All of my phones and computers coming with me. Pieces of the grand whole. Play with them in the MoMA. All of them connected to Appropouture. The future scanning the past upon the alt-lit bus forever. Talk about books where the machine becomes the medium. The mechanism of access. Roll the tweets down the scroll ball of my Blackberry Pearl of Great Price. Medium on my Mini Netbook. ello if you wanna. Can I get a Hell yes? You can get there from the index. Limit the access away from my social. Gotta keep something for the estate. A table at the Strand. My OfficeMax copy in the rare books safe. Here once shelved a famous fire. Stocking the foundation of his future presentation. While Knausgaard held the throne. A bullet with his name in it, or better shall I say a book. Lil’ Count of MonteCrisco. Hero of the Mormon mother. Christ within the body of us all. Van Goghs upon the wall. Sunflower placemats. Overpopulation bulging out the Windows XP. Got a hot hard drive with a hard on inducing .mov of Musette masturbating in the mountains. Another exhibit where once was Ono’s apple.
Her moissanite Faberge symbol of our matrimony beaming the burrito bar’s Sunday brilliance into the eyes of my brother in law’s Korean girlfriend who might as well be his wife’s eyes, causing her to ask if she can try it on.
It’s a secret, says my brother in law, but we’re tying the knot. We’ll be announcing it on the first. We’ve cried wolf long enough. A running joke fitting for an announcement. Don’t say anything. I know that nobody we know reads your writing. Just don’t post it on Facebook or anything.
Musette tells him that her fingers are tied, her fingers being surprisingly bigger than the soon to be fiance’s, half of my heart hoola-hooping around the little Korean’s twiggy digit.
Cheers to happy endings and new beginnings, I say, raising my water.
And an opportunity for an epilogue, says my brother in law. A chance to revisit the city before your fame makes you a frequent flyer.
Salud and au revoir!