Clutter is a sound.
In an excess of less,
A consolation of movement,
I remove material in spurs of abandonment, remedying attachment.
An exercise in forgetting, in rootlessness.
No material evidence of an existing past, no remains present to be forgotten for a bearable new future.

Objects break and already invisible images disappear.

All of our information is in the sun.
The sun and screen alike.
The moon and glitter.

Clutter is sculpture.
It is mass in space.
Space is room,
Space is page space is surface
Space is nook, is desktop is public
Space is mind is screen and what's before and behind it
Space is too thin to hold all of this.

Clutter takes up space.
Clutter makes more space.

I first encountered my room in a screen.
Smaller standing in its doorway.
Bigger in the corner
Smaller painting the doors white.
Bigger introducing a mirror.
A lamp.
Another. Another.
Filling more time by filling more space
And finding more room
The more things move in

Clutter is a portal.
Decluttering always risks losing stories.
Every perfume bottle, a gift.
empty scents lingering gateways

Clutter is archive
is not trying to be profound or coherent
Drawing in the chaos of unprecedented times.
No detail too little or too much.
Accumulating emotion and evidence of a temporary other world
To remember the possibility of another.