There’s a woman – mad or in the vanguard of Living Simply – who is slowly emptying her house out onto the street. Most mornings when I walk to work she’s arranged little pieces of her old life neatly on her front stone wall for passers-by to pore over and take what they fancy. Books and kitsch small ornaments.
It’s better than being hit over the head and robbed, I guess.
On the other hand it somehow seems more painful. A slow motion bleed. I wonder if she sits behind the curtains in the front room and watches herself disappear?
Welcome to 20 15!