I bought myself an IKEA bed, felt brave and full of cheer, a thousand parts around my feet, the manual somewhere near. Piece A is smiling at me, Piece C looks kind of wrong, but I’m determined, bold and proud - how hard can this be? Come on. Now C should meet with A, I guess, at least that’s what I think, but turning boards in circles makes my patience start to shrink. The drawing shows a happy man, assembling with delight, but mine looks like a cryptic map you’d read in candlelight. While building IKEA furniture, even rookies start to see that trees have secret consciousness and plot revenge on you and me. Every board remembers forests, every screw resents its fate - and they fight back in silence while you struggle, hesitate. I check the plan again, oh no - I’ve flipped the wrong side twice, the arrows point in riddles like a Scandinavian advice. Time to open up the bag, the sacred tools inside, but where’s the holy Allen key? It’s gone, it must have died. While building IKEA furniture, even rookies start to see that trees have secret consciousness and plot revenge on you and me. Every board remembers forests, every screw resents its fate - and they fight back in silence while you struggle, hesitate. So here it stands, my IKEA shelf - but I swear I bought a bed, how do I hang the mattress now? My hope is nearly dead. While building IKEA furniture, even rookies start to see that trees have secret consciousness and plot revenge on you and me.
