I put my everything box to a shelf, making it not looked as important as it should be.
My everything box surrounded by worn out books, pickle, old photos, medicines, old gnomes, old monopoly, old magazine, and more books and an old radio.
I see my everthing box radiating a feeling, a sad feeling, thats funny because a box can never feel.
Or maybe this box really did had a feeling, as the box is an amputated part of my body. It used to be my hand, my smile, and what’s inside my ribs.
What’s actually inside that box, you demand,
Nothing much, it’s just my ideal, me as an architect, writer, or photographer, or director, my study, my proud parents, my artist’s vision, my favorite songs, my health, hope, my youth, things that don’t really match with reality.