Simple pleasure comes from simple acceptance, simple recognition, simple presence. Unfolding the plain white instructions, noticing the booklet isn’t stapled and the pages slide over carpet better than graphite dust on marble countertops. Nose to paper draws out repro fluid black chemical smell, like the purple mimeograph worksheets from elementary school. Each screw turns in the predrilled hole and sits no more or less square than it should. Things with shape and dimension emerge from flat stacks of thin cheap nothing.
The cat crouches in the empty boxes, sneaking, tearing the onionskin paper with her claws.
It is so wholesome to do this building of someone else’s disassembled idea. Folding paper airplanes out of a book is the same, but as a kid it is so new and so challenging even a mediocre copy is a triumph. Now this furniture proves your self-utility, your conscious appreciation of pure line. Put your stuff in it and it is yours. It is white and clean and only holds what you have now.