Hand me down — America's Thrift m4w

There is not enough time to tell you any of this. You must know that our time here is short, that in a week we will begin to be picked off of the rack. This has nothing to do with clothing, nothing to do with shoes. This has to do with the looping of things, the creation of a circle where there once was a line. Your mother always liked me, you know—I complimented her earrings once, how they reminded me of a chandelier that my mother found in a second-hand shop, how we took each strand of crystal and placed it in the sink. We put rubber gloves on and rubbed the solution on the gems, we watched the sink turn black. My mother's earrings we would place in blue liquid to keep each facet reflecting light, to keep the rock doing its job. Look how it would sparkle: I would want to drink the liquid, I would want to chew on the diamond until my teeth split down the middle, until I could spit fragments, until I could spit something harder than bone. We pick an item up, hold it to our bodies, check for holes, check for stains. This fit, once. This was nice, once. Now we try on sweaters like it is some kind of joke: how could someone own this. How could someone wear this. We put our arms and neck through the holes and pose for photographs with people we know dressed as people we don't know: people on television, people who have died recently. This man was hung, ha ha. This man was killed, ha ha. There is no irony here. There is nothing about this that is caustic, nothing to make not dull out of what was once dull. You laugh, but there will be nothing left that is here now. This place will be picked clean in fifty-two days. You can count on it: on the last day of October all this will be gone: all things will expire—one every two days—all things will be missed and missed again.