The human agreed that the furniture was not as bad as I was often repeated to be. He nodded as if he were a rocking horse, well crafted when pushed beyond insistence, but unable to self power the softest of ruminations or to stop the remnants of the tired motion of a primal role. His roots were noble and flimsy and that left him susceptible to being obedient. But the couch had character at the very least. I watched as the operator said this again and again. As if I could handle another moment that depended upon being courteous. He coated and then drenched the fabric, several times, until the only green felt that remained had to feel like a grouping of volcanic islands. Sure they had outlasted their brothers, but that did not mean that they wanted generations of people to patronize their beauty or worse yet, call them home. I thought about the choking cushions, made heavy by lather and suds, a story born from defiance and irony. One modern attempt at a clean rebirth was far more brutal than the sum of the filthy touches that had founded the downfall long ago. I sat in the corner… watching both of the purveyors shaking hands…one leaning forward and then the other falling back. Fuck the death of the ancient world…I thought…who says paint should reside on the walls?
