Wiped out from packing, surrounded by towers of boxes. The last of the books in this room have been packed; remaining forlornly on one shelf are Robert Creeley's Collected, that darn new Dave Eggers novel which I keep trying to force myself to finish, Borges's Collected Fictions and Charles North's New and Selected Poems, which I just picked up a few days ago and haven't been able to bring myself to hide away yet. There is also a fresh new copy of the Rough Guide to USA sitting in front of me--even for a straight shot down I-80 I can't bring myself to travel without a guidebook. The cover of the book is a neon diner sign that says "Open 24 Hours," which is funny because I hardly think the U.S. is particularly good at being open late.
The poor dog is very confused by the rapidly shrinking floorspace and has mostly taken to lying around in the few open spaces looking sad.