I am still searching for what my life is supposed to mean, but every time I start on that process... lines become blurred. My vision fails me. All events I have participated in during my life thus far are shadows on glass. Never a true picture or memory. I know now that I am doomed to live though this small window in my head. All of my motions seem slow, untraceable and already programmed as a product of the landscape and surroundings instead of being my own personal actions.
I can reach out, claw out and try to capture what is around me, into my little box. I can hammer it shut with nails, glue and tape it. Wrap it in red and black paper so it seems sincere, tie it with a bow. Double knot. Gift tag. But whatever was in there is dust and musty air.
I accumulate so many of these boxes, I can see them anywhere I look, hidden under curtains, behind park benches, passenger seat of the third car on the street. Black, red, pink, brown, green. Open one, two, three, but always the same gift of emptiness and never memory.

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