Thomas Erickson
April 2023
I am cleaning out the closet in the mudroom. Things accumulate here: it is an ideal place to tuck things as we depart in a rush, or return in a wave of fatigue. Once tucked, however, they are apt to be forgotten in the dark, still space of the closet. Gradually, the well-ordered space is engulfed by an alluvial fan of detritus washed up by the wakes of our passage. Tucks become tosses, the angle of repose is approached, and soon thereafter I am forced into action.
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