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  • Two old homes with four generations of shit jammed inside of them, plus all of us. We rifle through boxes and cabinets and entire rooms full of these dead people's things. We inhale their dust and their odors that saturate every surface, a sour tang that we hope is from generations of cats. We crawl over barricades and find rooms and things that we shouldn't have. We write stories in our heads of how and why these people were living this way, how they ended up with so many useless things. Old television sets stacked on top of older television sets, twenty bottles of the same kind of lotion, lumber from a dozen unfinished projects filling the living room, countless notebooks and rulers, six typewriters and fourteen staplers.

    We look at price tags on bad records and try to ignore the idea that—soon enough—we will be reduced to a few increasingly foul-smelling rooms full of things that won't make sense to anyone but us.
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