We sit in this living room surrounded by boxes stacked high and towering all around us. Some are leaning against the wall. Others I observe impressively defying gravity on their own accord. Some of these boxes are staked low in a manner suitable for furniture replacement.
He sits on a well cushioned very old couch. It’s the sort you can sink into and don’t mind the stains. I have a stiff kitchen chair pulled up and a clipboard in hand. I lean my arm on one of these boxes and glance at the writing in sharpie marker across the cardboard. Orange Milk records. Inside are brand new CDs, and records. They are freshly printed carrying that new factory plastic scent.