HOM and i hustle ourselves bright and early to the annual neighborhood flea market. sixty stalls in a basement car park overflowing with potential treasures, matched by the funds we arm ourselves with.
perhaps it is our recent move. perhaps it is our impending move. perhaps our tastes have improved. there is nothing in the car park that compels. it's not us, HOM says. our standards are still way down there. it's just that there's nothing good here today.
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