Beck - "The Golden Age"

First move of the day. The sun barely up, coffee still warm in the thermos. It's a little girl who says she's a ballerina and she has a pocket dog. People never see about ten things in any given move. This time it was emptying her drawers. She just had some mental block about it, and then when we showed up she shook her head and slapped her forehead. "Yeah...yeah, why didn't I empty them? I'm such an idiot." So we moved the fridge while she packed like a maniac. That ballerina concentration.

Second move of the day was a retired couple, the wife didn't want to talk to us, I think she thought we were servants, but the husband, he wouldn't shut up. Talked about being a professor, talked about his painting class, life-drawing, naked ladies. I think because he saw me watching a young woman pass by. I can't help it, when I'm getting physical, breaking a sweat of any kind, nothing to do with my mind, it goes straight to my dick. "Every week a new one. They're not all like a magazine, but they're all beautiful in their own way." His wife seemed to get madder and madder.

The ride between one place and the next, from one arbitrary point in the city to another, with every single thing a person owns, is the part I like the most. I feel like we're shuffling the deck of the city, and when you have everything someone owns in your possession it makes you look at everyone else different. They're just going about their day, but behind them I see a trail of all the little things that make up a person. A futon or a four-poster or a dirty single, an old sad lamp or a beautiful brass cane or a painting of mt. Rushmore. It falls behind people like their shadow, and they pull it all on strings, on the bus or down the stairs from work or doing anything else that wastes all the time they'll ever have.

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