The crawl space of the House of Usher

I sit in Gothic dusk and tempest, in a crowd of shadows in my mother's house, a cobweb trailed forlornly from one ear, and contemplate my labors: all of this vast labyrinth to shovel out and sort, and my small nutshell space as well, if I want to keep any of her pretty things. Which makes: thirteen rooms, three kitchens, five bathrooms, five hallways, two attics (with madwomen), eight cellars (with minotaur), and twenty closets. Gods know how many drawers. All filled to bursting with 88 years of Stuff: hammers and antimacassars and old toys; eggshell china and upopened mathoms; plus more paper than most governments.

I despair.

Nine