But Does It Float
I found a desk on the street. The pavement. In the rain. It had a few dozen eye-sized puddles on top, but smelled of lasting relationships. There's a small space in our house that's had the absence of a desk in it for months. But the ones in the local furniture shops wouldn't fit and Ikea is a disappointment factory disguised as an agitation encouragement playground. So I've been walking round thinking: I'll wait til I find one on the street. Or the pavement. I don't lack ambition. I got help to get it back and got it back and wiped it down and cleared the soggy leaves off the bottom shelf and slapped it around a bit to see if it'd confess anything. It didn't. What if it'd caught a disease that wooden things get when they spend who knows how long in the rain on the corner in full view of the post office or someone'd say it's theirs and in the rain on the corner in full view of the post office is where they keep it or it'd been gushed against by a police horse. But the internet bellowed concern yourself with something else or put up a sign that says found: desk.