On Tuesday, January the 13th, 2004 I packed my life into a suitcase. It was a soft top, velvet trim on the outside and felt on the inside. Felt. I felt on the inside. Some possessions, apparently, cannot ever be checked in (you have to lug them around).

My life in a box. Boxers: I'd converted years ago, I'm a free man, but I remember the pains of those chains. Generic clothing for my generic life. Pant legs? Just 2 please.. medium waist, medium length , medium color, medium everything. At some point a sequence of 'mediums' converges to 'mediocre'. My life in my box is not at that point. But I'll get there.

My life in a box. Guitar strings in my box. Luckily they haven't caught a guitar yet. But I can see that they're thinking about it, the little bastards. "Let's catch us a fine guitar", says grand daddy A string to little baby E. I was an unstrung guitar once, and I resent those strings. I wish I could dance to my own tune, but I've been trapped. Trapped by strings, forced to face the malady.

My life in a box. Trapped in a box. My life's in a box and it wants to get out. The pieces of my life.. the little socks and shoes, and that PDA, they want to get out of their little compartments, their little boxes and be free in that big box. But I don't let them, I pack it all in nice and tight, and I lock that bitch down, cos I wanna make sure my life is safe. I don't wanna risk my pure white shirt getting skintimate with my crayons, there's way too much color for it there. It's a big bad nasty world out there, and I don't wanna risk my life outside the box. I'd rather it be trapped and safe than free and gone.

My life's in a box. I am the box.

(Teenage angst from someone in his twenty's :) - me at a later date).