Everything in the wrong place.

Considering the last year of my life, it occurred to me that I really like rearranging things. And fortunately furniture and lamps don’t fight back.

The chair never says, “I’m not comfortable with this.”

The strange painting from a Missouri flea market doesn’t mind which nail its hanging from.

The small folding table could serve as a nightstand, but would be equally happy folded up nicely in the closet with all the jackets that rarely come off their hangers.

Best of all, once everything has been reassigned it kinda feels like new stuff. And the dingy place you call home becomes a different version of itself. A place a little less predictable than the last. Unfamiliar and exciting, but without any address update paperwork from the postal service or utility company phone calls.

Rearranged without making a scene. Redesigned without negotiation.

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