I must go and buy some polka dots, or they will put me in the zoo. For purchase, I must sell the things I own. My only working timepiece meant less to me before than it does today. Goodbye, Movado! Goodbye, Cartier! Some shekels, I am sure, the latter will bring. But purple polka dots they don’t come cheap. Cheaply had, cheaply gone, is what my mother had once told me as a child. To buy them, I must sell away my clothes. And every stitch I had ever worn was the finest known. Off my back comes the crackling sharp cotton of my beloved Jil Sander, and gone in eBay boxes classic (but early) Issey Miyake. Now that I have nothing-to-nothing left, I’m ready and naked to venture to the market before noon. There, I have seen scarlet, mauve, and chocolate. If only I could find a pair of knee-length pantaloons, and not confuse my mind between the difference between britches and breaches. Penniless, crumbless, I see the cotton candy clowns coming straight away for me. They’re at the outskirts now of the baseball court, the tennis field, the squash encomium of my lovelorn ways. And I will be willingly and unwillingly carried away to my woodland fiefdom where every material known to Man will have been sucked clean out of me, like bilge from a pump, and once again to be the blue-eyed animal infrequent visitors gawk at when they come and toss me a saltine cracker.