Cleaning Up

I've been cleaning, selling, and burning all my things. Myoki's broken-English letters turn orange then black then air; my finest clothes, tailored precisely to my sleek form, now move amidst the idiot crowds on the back of parrot poseurs. And, yet, it's all alright.

Yesterday I wore a pair of 501s and a sports shirt--I even tried on a smile--and I looked bloody good and not at all common. I felt natural and there is nothing stranger. I'm sure it's like anything and I'll get used to it in time.

It's an administrative nightmare, but I plan to change my name to match my new style and voice. I am planning one last bender--a big one--but have no plans after that but to move. Come all ye false dandies and follow me into the wild night! Wear your most casual clothes! I dare you! Just know that if you do I'll immediately drop you all like a tonne of bricks.

I am not here, I am not gone, I am not Nigel Tewksbury. Occasionally I hear him still, his measured, melifluous voice calling me and telling me what to do and say--and there is no denying the sheer magnitude of his awesomeness--but it's time for him to die and leave this house behind.