On moving out of my family home forever
Everything packed waiting to leave like the last droplets of blood of a decaying corpse. Boxes of books read, reread or unread clothes long out of fashion thanks to time's contempt folded chess boards remnants of half-baked home work on rickety copy books rickety vases strong evidence of adolescence traces of confusion -- Che Guevara and La Pietà are in the same box hope and degeneration uncared for silverware the emotional labyrinth of photo albums.
I'd like to think they are ants hibernating waiting to take life elsewhere when the spring sun will warm us again. Will we survive, then, in a new skeleton?