Peculiar feeling that goes with a big clearing out of old books, papers, recordings, clothing, objects, bottles of wine never to be drunk. These remained as parts of your intimate environment embodying abandoned but never quite relinquished desires, or the possibilities of reviving some past historical locations in a mood of wry nostalgia, of autumnal fullness. You are merciless with them, out they go, leaving large holes as if you are erasing parts of the backdrop and losing tethers and orientations. It is a kind of death, a wrench at first and then strangely liberating, seeing how personhood is put together, layer by layer, in its undoing. All that ballast overboard, but not to float higher, rather to settle more lightly on the ground.