Dead people's coffee tables...

It's quaint, and roughed-up in all the right places. I want it, even if it means I'd have to wedge it in some inconvenient area where the front door would most likely hit it. I want it as badly as I want to be reincarnated in some burlesque dancer's body at the Crazy Horse on days when I'm just a little a bit sauced. I could just picture CJ nattering on its apparent ugliness as well as my indefatigable ability to eliminate my precious little of unused space with yet another piece of junk.

I run my hand over the scratchy burls and feel the previous owner's essence settling on the ends of my fingers. He was a quiet sort of man, moderate in his habits, fond of buying meals along the shops at Cherche-Midi. He enjoyed a mugful of coarse toddy every so often, and he didn't quite see the use for coasters. He piled his coffee table high with books, since he didn't keep a shelf.

I want to ask him, which of these books will you never read again? How many of them are just stale props to show visitors how much culture you've imbibed? If I were to take away these books, would you feel barren, uncultivated? Would such an act provoke you, transform you? Will I be able to see your heart as it was before it got lost in the frenzy of accumulating the knowledge you thought you needed?

The disquieting feeling never quite leaves. Won't you take me? I've been waiting for someone like you.