A box holds a vacuous power. The ensnarement of space creates its object, gnawed on by mischievous mice. But to what end do silver ridges lie parallel over cigarettes, do rough pine guard the peasant, do porous flaps contain leather-bound books.
Eaves are designated by the thick smell of mothballs, closed, taped. The art of sentimentality that comes with an unseen photograph, the paper of a child. Cryptic designations of black felt dent the mystery. The packed. Slicing with a razor discovers the past.
Potential is cheap and invaluable. Closed doors, to be held back, to be guarded. To be opened, deserted gilded paper darkens. Sprinkled grey attempts to create uniformity. A box will resist with bouncy tactility. A box cannot be resisted.