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Collector’s Hypoactive Delirium

I feel lower than a bow-legged caterpillar. Lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. Lower than an ankle bracelet on a flat-footed pygmy. Just down right low. I’ve done the unimaginable; the inexcusable. My entire collectibles collection―the Civil War relics, antique bottles, Native American artifacts, coins and currency, and WW2 pieces―has been boxed away in the dark, inescapable confines of plastic storage containers and cardboard boxes.

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