From years ago, I have refused to buy actual furniture because I move every
three months. A restlessness seizes me and I cannot work; I must go somewhere;
I must get a new space. So I scrounge mostly. Perhaps this is merely a sign
of my instability; I have a terror of being caught and taught to grow. All
the pieces of furniture that I love are here, arranged in my room at Marenna's.
My persimmon wood cabinet. My Regulator clock. My boxes. My amber collection.
My photographs. I collect boxes and cabinets when I travel. The persimmon wood cabinet in the corner is a rich golden hue with a bold repeating black grain on the doors; the Asian persimmon has a much larger, sinister oily grain than its North
American cousin: my own pattern is that of four thin claws cupped upwards.
Four black hands cupped upwards, bleeding into a gold rain.
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