i'm packing up my things, carrying all my possessions out in boxes, trashbags, slipping through the hallways, bumping into the walls, when i run into jonas, my neighbor, a short, sprite, 60 year old doctor.  he smiles, i pause, casual conversation ensues.  i tell him i'm leaving tomorrow morning, he expounds his laments, the talk turns to poetry, to art...

as i turn to leave, the conversation winding to a close, he turns back around, 

"you know," he says, i once asked a painter friend of mine, 'what happened to surrealism?'.  and he smiled at me and said, 'look around.' "