It's poor pickings, I haven't died and there's stuff I don't want to part with yet, there's an order to this diminishing of self, skewed towards big things first, then small, and smaller until finally the legion of things I haven't yet thought about yet.
After all the miscellaneous randoms the books will go, first by a half, then another half, then another, surely I don't need every book by Somerset Maughm, Nabokov even, "Ada", "Lolita" and "Pale Fire" will suffice, and so I'll work through the list, a couple of the best by my favorite authors, keep the reference, psychology, mythology, fairy tales, dictionaries of mythology, phrase and fable, and my books will become manageable, there will be room to live.
Another picker, random enquiries on Kijiji - thought it was a another one of those, YOU KNOW - just want to talk, but he came by, pleasant enough, he's here for the artist's models, he knows what they cost at the art store, as well, a chain mail glove, I suggest the fencing foils but he says no - his wife would kill him (then why the glove?), a pair of dumbells, a microphone stand. Maybe he's a picker, but he's got pretty eclectic tastes...
He asks about the story with the artists models - they're for figurative drawing, and I had written about a lady I had met down the street about 15 years ago who was selling all these paintings she had done, of the little mannequins posed in various settings, somehow she didn't understand that they were supposed to be placeholders for real people, and he's laughing, he thinks I was joking. I wasn't, I don't need to make much up, life surpasses me in absurdity at every turn. His English, it's not so good, and I'm always surprised when foreigners get my sense of humor, few enough of the locals do, and he's laughing harder now when I tell him it's true...
So another day, more shit gone, time now to unpack some more boxes...