A few years ago, I lived in an apartment in a house. As it wasn't a huge place, storage was sometimes a problem. I'd thought of moving but then how would the family of dust that had come to think of the place as theirs too feel?.
Coming home from work one day, a solution was laid before me in terms I could not ignore.
Arriving at my door, I could see something was askew, right off in fact. It was the door, hanging in a peculiar way I was certain I hadn't left it. As my head dog tilted to one side and I squinted, my brain began to whirr.
I pushed through, stepped over broken glass and the explanation started to register. Books had been freed from their shelves, clothes from my closet liberated into the light and the dust was reacquainting itself with the new layout.
A crime victim, that's what I was. Some cheeky bastards had kicked my door down, taken my valuables, upended everything they could and were off to huff and puff their cares away.
The most immediate and stunning loss was my 300 or so CDs. Without so much a note, gone and never to be seen in the beautiful chaotic order I'd loved them in again. Being a ridiculous sort, I had no insurance and so, they went unreplaced in the CD format for the most part. I began to rely and still do on downloading. It's legal here you know. If I like something enough, I'll buy it fair and square.
Later, as the police officer went through the requisite motion of dusting for prints and telling me I'd never see my things again, I thought I'd tune him out with a little television, something too big for them to have carried away quickly. In a moment, I knew what indignity meant. Fuckers took my remote.
This post has been brough to you courtesy of what I'm listening right now: Crime Jazz, Music In The Second Degree.