Ah, the sweet simplicity of commerce. I leave my house in the dark, long before dawn, heavy box on my shoulder: making my way to the métro, panting like an exhausted Vieux-Montréal caleche horse, trying not to slip on the ice, drinking in the silence, delighting in the cobalt sky—and my newfound immunity to January’s sting, and Winter’s wrath.
On the métro and on the bus, strangers stare but I don’t really care: can’t remember the last time sitting felt so good. Fifty-pages-of-The-Favourite-Game later, I’m standing in a sunlit classroom, on a country-club-of-a-campus, marveling at the magic of the market: one by one, they come out of the box, transfigured and transformed by trade, into pretty piles of paper.
Heading home this afternoon, under a bright blue sky, I delight in the sweet soreness of my bourgeois body, and feel light, light as a feather. How strangely satisfying it is: selling Everything.
—John Faithful Hamer, From Here (2016)