Let me buy your shit. Have a garage sale, let me buy everything. Sell your clothes. Sell your kids’ toys. Sell your obsolete VCRs and BetaMax players. Sell your vibrators and cock rings. Sell your wadded up cum rags. Let me buy you. I want it all, forever, to keep for as long as I’m on this fucking rock. I’ll sell you, years later when I’m unable to maintain the effort of living and keeping you alive too.
I want to hoard you. I want to hoard everyone, and keep you all in my storage unit, where your memories will bicker with each other amongst the settled dust. I want to provide a safe haven of torment, a cornucopia where the essence of a thousand nameless facelesses reside in the delicate, exquisite horror of obscurity. Each object with a story to tell to noone. A thousand tales as tall as Everest, told to a corrugated tin wall and some pre-fab storage shelves.
I want to watch your second hand furniture glare at the cat tree. I want to watch your antique, totally unused duchess stare balefully at the utilitarian chest of drawers that isn’t worth one leg of itself. I want to observe. I want to feel. I want to know the secrets of your mundane possessions, to feel the power of knowing what a person casts away. I want to see how long it takes you to miss something that you sold on a whim, in the spirit of decluttering a life that is so inconsequential it may as well not exist in the first place.
Let me buy you.