I don't have time to do anything anymore. I have piles, piles, piles stacked everywhere. I dream of a day when I can go through all these piles and purge, purge, purge. I often wonder about how it would be for an unfamiliar observer to rifle through my things were I to die tomorrow. There are boxes with labels from four moves stowed away in the garage. They hold broken china and stemware, unused craft supplies, half-finished projects, and books. Books, books, books. I used to read. Gah.

Dan wasn't amused when I sang him this song.