Seeing all my stuff in one place makes me nervous. For the exact reason that it becomes stuff instead of being each thing in its right place—basket, banjo, boots. The next step is putting it into suitcases and boxes, which I haven’t yet been able to do for psychological reasons. The problem with moving off to college (one of many) is that you actually have to figure out these unromantic logistics. How many boxes? Carry-ons? Shipping my books and acoutrements feels like putting undecaying bits of my flesh through the postal service, like Doctor Frankenstein with his backpack of bones and eyeballs on his way to the Orkneys. I keep thinking about my sweaters in the back of some truck hurtling through flatlands and cities. We’re both leaving home, but my sweaters don’t care. When I see all my stuff again, I know it’s going to look different, inappropriate somehow, in its foreign new home.