The living room is filled with crap. It’s the usual, end of the week, should have been cleaned and put away over the weekend crap combined with six large boxes that my mother sent. These boxes contain old yearbooks, favorite children’s books, oh so very many of my grandmother’s photographs, books I’m peculiarly unable to part with, a wide variety of knickknacks and keepsakes, and the box that I am currently staring down. A large box, wrapped carefully in a map of Berlin, both the top and bottom wrapped separately, so it can be opened at will. The question is, do I want to open it? I know what it contains, at least in theory. It is notes, cards and letters sent to me from high school through college. There are, I imagine, love letters, break up letters, meaningful and meaningless notes, personal birthday cards, and throwaway cards barely signed and without real sentiment. Do I want to go through this stuff? Should I shove it in a large envelope and file it away for someone to find after my death? Should I just burn it? Should I carefully sift through it a save out the pieces I may or may not be interested in reflecting in my old age? I’m leaning toward burning all the contents unread and unsifted.

Here is a photo I accidentally took this morning while messing with my camera:

Really the photo is all you need to know about my last few days. Big time excitement, my friends, big bg big excitement.