Procrastinating again

Sometimes I love my apartment so much that I want the whole world to come to me instead of the other way around. I am renting my place this summer because of research fellowships and I feel like I am passing off a child or a treasured pet to strangers. What will I do when there are no soothing rows of Art in America (every single issue since 1982) to look at? No New York Art Book Fair 2008 poster to contemplate? No cerulean blue Thonet chair stolen from University surplus to sit on? No 400-thread-count sheets to fuck in? No midcentury teak desk for my dog to sleep under? Maybe the renter will let me drop in and visit.