And I wasn't the only slave to my nesting instinct. The people I know who used to sit in the bathroom with pornography, now they sit in the bathroom with their IKEA furniture catalogue.
We all have the same Johanneshov armchair in the Strinne green stripe pattern. Mine fell fifteen stories, burning, into a fountain.
We all have the same Rislampa/Har paper lamps made from wire and environmentally friendly
unbleached paper. Mine are confetti.
All that sitting in the bathroom.
The Alle cutlery service. Stainless steel. Dishwasher safe.
The Vild hall clock made of galvanized steel, oh, I had to have that.
The Klipsk shelving unit, oh, yeah.
Hemlig hat boxes. Yes.
The street outside my high-rise was sparkling and scattered with all this.
The Mommala quilt-cover set. Design by Tomas Harila and available in the following:
Orchid.
Fuchsia.
Cobalt.
Ebony.
Jet.
Eggshell or heather.
It took my whole life to buy this stuff.
The easy-care textured lacquer of my Kalix occasional tables.
My Steg nesting tables.
You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug.
Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.

Basic set up:

When an explosion hits our narrator's apartment, it get him reflecting on his life. He may have all the latest mod cons and furniture but he realizes that he doesn't just find this hollow—he finds it stifling.

Looking for a quote that sums up late capitalism through a postmodern lens? Well, this excerpt from Fight Club fits the bill.

Late capitalism may make a lot of promises, but can consumer goods really bring satisfaction and happiness? Sure, they can jazz up an apartment and boost a person's image, but there comes a point where people may start to feel a clash between what consumerism promises and what it delivers. That's what's happened to our narrator here: he's become defined by his possessions to the point where it's no longer as though he owns them; it's more like they own him.

The fast pacing and list format of this passage echoes all the characteristics of late capitalism. It reads kind of like a furniture catalogue—you know, when you're flicking through the pages and circling all the stuff you'll buy. (Do people do that anymore?)