Horror of Hoarding

Long night for Mr. Morlock couple weeks ago. No, not that spur-of-the-moment weekend bender in the Peoria *ahem* massage parlor. The other night: striking the set, lights, sound, props, etc. for LEGION.

(what? never got around to seeing LEGION and now it's vanished into the past? don't cry at me, weepy-pants, you had your chance)




So for the past week and a half Chateau Morlock looks rather like an abattoir (I mean more than usual), what with the severed heads, blood-stained furniture, soiled hospital gear, spikey, naily, staplely lumber. Admittedly, the bloody oars upon which poor Thomas Kintry was crucified look rather smart above the mantle. And the Cthulhu Jr. tentacles from "Dreams in the Witch House" explode rather fetchingly from the toilet in sun room (don't ask.)



But Mr. Morlock gets rather queasy when his environment is even moderately cluttered. Thoughts of true squalor can wake him up screaming. It's nowhere near as bad as it has been or could be, but Mr. Morlock anxiously looks forward to a pleasant weekend evening when he can either return all borrowed items to their rightful owners, or else burn them ceremoniously in his back yard.



Kinda hoping for the latter. Kinda hoping y'all can join him.