The apartment has been laid bare in the mad rush to purge all holiday spirit. As fast as that shit goes up, it comes down even faster. I suppose it's the closest we can come to washing our hands of the old year.
I take a perverse delight in this post-seasonal ravishing. The tree lies like a dead thing on the curb. The walls and corners are pale and shivering and almost indecent. Vince Guaraldi has been replaced by The Cure. We are tipping into the long dark of Winter.
Everything is back to normal. Happy 2005.
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