It is day two of the move and the boxen are closing in. Circling off escape routes and dismantling furniture as they go. We have been holding out against this siege now for about forty-eight hours and, though the end is definitely in sight, we’re still uncertain about our future.
The most prominent element of this event is the dustbunnies. In particular those that have been mounting armies—vast fuzzy regiments armed with frizz-bombs and toothpicks—under my bed. Like bugs scrambling when their rock has been lifted, the dustbunnies quickly scattered, but not before showing their true, terrible numbers.
We have called in a mechanized division for battlefield sweep up.
Meanwhile, I sleep on a mattress on the floor, trading watches with my cabbit plushy, watching the dim flicker of the dustbunny campfires in the distance.
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