Wordsworth said that poetry is, “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Well, around here it’s mostly been the cascading overflow of random closets and not very much tranquility. As a result, much of my reading has been restricted to horrifying internet articles about terrible moving companies, and trolling kijiji for apartments. However, while cleaning up we have uncovered some odd and poetic things that were squirreled away in the basement. One of the things I’ll miss about no longer living in my childhood home are finds like these… no more poking through stacks of old postcards and photographs, no more typewriters and reel-to-reels, no more basement full of emotionally charged clutter. So before I enter the brave new world of apartment living, here are the books I found in my basement.
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