2030 | sit on it |

It has not been fucked on (at least not by me), shit on, pissed on, scratched to shit. No dent. There is a stain, though, and a cigarette burn, but I do not know those stories so I do not care because they remind me of nothing. On sale for free. Carried up four flights of stairs in unconditioned passageways and rooms, slid along the floor, sweat marks all over it and our clothes, cushions tossed on dirty parquet. The room is smaller now, more comfortable, less memorable. No, not less memorable, it's just that there is less to forget, which feels a lot like letting go.