When I get home they've taken the armoire, the tallboy, and they're in the process of removing the dining room table and an easy chair. All my favorite pieces of furniture! I press myself against the wall to let them pass with something swaddled in a stained drop cloth (like the ghost of furniture) with something still sitting in it upright. I slip inside and take a look around. The place looks like the inside of a computer raided for spare parts. They've left the toilet seat up and the bowl full of urine. Who are these men? Who authorized this semi-move, anyway?
On a small table, under the mirror in the foyer, I find a letter among the day's coupons, junk flyers, and bills; it's from Russell Edson. When I open it, I find a blank sheet of paper. It is an answer to the fan letter I wrote him in my head a hundred thousand times and never sent because no matter what I wrote it would never do and now he is dead.
With this blank sheet of paper, I finally have the stationary necessary to write the letter I've been waiting years to write.
It, too, will be blank.
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