I pass this apartment every night on my route. It is appears uninhabited, but through the curtain-less, lit window there is a small picnic blanket on the floor. Perched on top of this are a pair of large mugs with neatly folded cloth napkins jutting out of them. It is probably some sort of weird welcome wagon type thing. Either that or people actually do live there, but have managed to renounce clutter in such a profound way that all they're left with is the little blanket, mugs, and cloth napkins. This got me to thinking about the clutter that surrounds us here at home. We often pay lip service to the need to get rid of things. Occasionally we actually do get rid of things. I sell cds, and Jen donates clothes, to name the first couple of things that come to mind. The fact remains though, more stuff stays than goes. Every available surface has something on it. Every available bit of wall space has a piece of furniture against it. There are things crammed between the pieces of furniture, and no doubt things shoved beneath them, courtesy of the kids. Sometimes my brain feels like that too.

cds I listened to so that I could bring them back home to fill the spaces that they had recently vacated: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds "Murder Ballads", Sol Invictus "Hill of Crosses", Nausea "The Punk Terrorist Anthology Vol. 1", and Kalenda Maya "Pilegrimsreiser"