You can tell a lot about me from my box. Take a look inside.
There are suitcases stuffed with crap beneath the bed, and a distinct lack of photos on the wall.
Books from university gather dust on my shelf, and dirty office-wear is draped over a chair.
It stinks in here.
About a years worth of New Scientist is strewn across the floor, and a collection of unused CDs is sitting beside a bottle of Corsodyl.
If that glass looks stained, it’s because the water inside went stagnant last week. And those painkillers on the bedside table are for my chronic migraines.
If you really want, you can take a look inside my hard-drive. But I’d rather you didn’t.
None of this was here when I arrived. The shelves were unburdened, and the bed, drawers, desk and wardrobe were absent.
It really did look like a box.
I thought if I put my things inside, I could turn it into a room.
Try not to think about it, and I may just fool myself.
Truth is, it doesn’t matter what you put inside that little box you call a room. It just a box. Make of that what you will.