the car, having been severely brutalized by a band of nomadic savages, is convalescing in a parking lot in brooklyn. The truck, having withstood the humiliation of invalid paperwork is now on the road again, if cautiously. The painting hangs forlornly in the rarefied air of some gallery as little more than potential chattel. The chainsaw is resting comfortably, as is the sexy little davenport, in spite of its hasty conversion to an all weather yard ornament. In spite of the changes which befall objects upon their departure, there remains plenty of firewood, a desk and some beer. And some bugs. And dirty books. And most importantly, the clock that always says ten to nine.