Our apartment, our things, (or your things, since you've funded everything thus far) always look prettier when we have others over. They point out how nicely all of our wood matches (it's teak; significant sums of money were paid for that exact reason) and suddenly the clean lines, the minimal-ness, the stacks of books and the bare walls are transformed to something elegant,... intentional. Is it odd that I clean up everyday? By 'clean up' I of course mean make the bed, re-hang the bath towels, clear the dining table and coffee table and, in effect, all 900 or so square feet that we call home of any notion of residence. Nope, nobody lives here. These are all props. Those clothes don't get worn, that food doesn't get eaten, that bed doesn't get slept in. Those heaters never get turned on, no one here watches movies or Jeopardy or reads with anyone else, not especially while wearing as many layers as possible because it's suddenly down to the 30s, where did this cold weather come from anyway. That kitchen hasn't been used, not for making ten different kinds of pickles on Labor Day, or for making late Sunday brunches, definitely not for my famous this or your famous that. Everything in here is a story. We're creating a culture. Our animate and inanimate objects, our totems, our trinkets, our belongings... they all have meaning. I become secretly pleased when I pick something up that I see everyday (but don't really see) and I remember its story. I get secretly pleased when I look around and comprehend, feel, understand, remember... this is real life.