You may have come across my past post. That couch was sold 45 seconds after posting to the director of an orphanage for blind gifted children. The new owner told me the sofa will live out the rest of its life providing soft, loving comfort to six-year-olds as they read braille textbooks on fluid dynamics and write scathing critiques on literary hacks like Virginia Woolf.
I realize you're probably kicking yourself for missing out on such an amazing piece of furniture. You should be, obviously, but all hope is not lost. I actually have one more couch available. This past Halloween, an old man appeared on my front porch. It was raining, and he was wearing a black hooded trench coat. He pointed to the sidewalk just as a flash of lightning illuminated an ugly, misshapen furnishing. He explain that he was cursed after building a furniture store on an old Gypsy graveyard, and that the spirits would release him if he could rid himself of the most offensive of his inventory: this brown IKEA sofa. He lamented his pox-ridden face, and showed me how arthritis crippled his once strong hands. I tried to explain that I didn't want the couch, but he then let out a blood-curdling howl as he dissolved into a million spiders.
I moved the couch upstairs to find a Dervish standing in my living room. He explained between long drags on his water pipe that the sofa is in excellent condition and is 35.5" L x 66" W x 29" H. He also described the waves of pestilence brought on by its Swedish design, and that its legend sent shivers down travelers of the Silk Road. He mentioned that I must hold the couch until its true owner come forth. This individual would be in need of the sofa for their bed chambers, living room, or basement. The true owner of the couch would be chaste in character and virtue, and willing to pick up and move the couch themselves. They would present $150 on a bed of lotuses, or would be willing to provide their best offer.