Tomorrow is my packout. For the past few days, I've been waking up feeling stressed. Not stressed in an abstract, brow-knitting kind of way, but really physically stressed. I can feel the adrenaline coursing around in my body, as if my blood were searching for an exit. My skin has developed a thrumming pulse all its own.
With the exception of a few odds and ends (papers to file, old pictures to sort through), all of my belongings are piled in my room. Following protocol, there is a storage pile and an apartment pile. Everything breakable has been photographed and documented; books have been catalogued. Preparations for clothes packing are underway. And I have survived a moment of sheer terror, when I discovered my unbelievably obese cat attempting to gingerly make her way across the glassware and picture frames to inspect some dustmote in the corner.
Still, for all that, I have this intense desire to light a match and throw it in.