Stood, hands on hips, staring at piles, the piles of stuff, the piles accomplished over the lifetime of an enterprise, a business, a domicile — a life itself…wondering, “Where do I start?”
“What goes,” you wonder. “What do I keep?”
Does everything go? Every seizable thing and be done with it all?
Except wit, that is.
Keep your wits.
Probably the clothes on your back, too. The spectacle of naked, single-minded purity may raise alarm.
Wits and clothes about you, standing there, hands on hips — what plan forms?
Not the special theory; not special wit that has you picking through the stuff: “I love thee, HDMI cable; I love thee not, national debt.” That only brings you to the knees, closer to stuff.
No.
What is the general theory? What is standing wit in relation to life and stuff?
What plan forms?