So now I'm moving eastward. None too far but enough out of the way to throw a wrench in my life. Changing schools, giving up job oportunities and worst of all being away from the Pacific. Not only that I have to pack my life into tiny brown boxes all over again... Five years, seven houses. What a happy ride, eh?
Although I do suppose its a rather powerful statement. We put so much into stuff... Our "entire lives" are our posessions all in little boxes, where we cannot see them. Are they there, are they intact? No way to know. Schrodinger would be proud.