Somewhere there is a huge mausoleum where lots of unopened gifts lay cold. They are wrapped in pretty paper with our names on, waiting for us. There is alot of dust and frayed ribbon and moths, and we are afraid.

We are afraid to enter that room and find the one that is ours. We dare not peel off the layers and take a look inside. We wander down aisles running our hands over unopened boxes that we know are not ours. We cannot figure out why the ribbon won't come off, yet we forget to check it's our name on the label.

Sometimes we find our box and we put it back, afraid it is too old and fragile to return to. Yet it is it's fragility that makes it a gift for us.

We cannot leap out of our coffins and say no sorry, not ready yet, I still haven't unwrapped that present you gave me at birth. This is when we find the only name tag we have is on our toes and our gift has finally disintergrated, suffocated with dust, like us.

Take off the sellotape.

Leave the slab.


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