My life is complete. In ten small boxes and three suitcases.

Not used to seeing that, actually. I've been meaning to show my friends some pictures from the old days this weekend, but I've already packed them away, and didn't want to open any boxes again.

So we just improvised, and devised this new tool which we dubbed 'conversation'. This new invention of ours got on pretty well, till one of my friends brought up the subject.

This girl that I used to be rather good friends with is on her last legs, I was told. Three more months to live, because the two tumours in her stomach has spread across her entire body through her lymph nodes. I still have the letters she wrote me when she was in Sudbury. Unfortunately they're packed away in the boxes too.

Everything...everything in fucking boxes. I might as well throw myself in one too.