Yesterday I dug out the box I hid when I was 15.
It was covered in dirt, worms crawling on it, and smelled like a dirty homeless man.
I was confused, though. I didn’t know how to open it. I completely forgot how it worked.
Was I an alien to this box now? Was I a stranger?
I didn’t know, and didn’t care. All I knew was that I was holding the box again, all I needed to do then was to try and open it. Slowly, I would feel the pleasure of its insides, the sweet toxicity of its perverseness, among its other secrets.
It’s locked for now, but I’ll take it with me wherever I go, for I know that if I’m patient enough I will be in for a treat.