A little story, probably apocryphal - or do I mean apocalyptical – about an old man and a box. Any resemblance between the old man and myself is purely unintentional – or do I mean impure intention – and the box is a box, nothing more, and absolutely, in no way, metaphorical. Or do I mean metaphysical? Whatever. It is probably better not to read anything more into it other than what it says, though obviously each word has been weighed and held in the palm of my hand, held up to the light of day and slept with (under my pillow) until it became part of dreams.

There’s a box.

The old man has been searching for this box all his life.

He has looked in many, many paces – in mountain high, in ocean deep.

He started looking when he was young.

Sometimes the search made him cry, sometimes he was sick.

Sometimes it made him strong.

It defines him.

The box is underneath his house.

He can reach it, maybe, because it’s very, very deep - but he must destroy the house in trying.

He has been looking for this for so long he can no longer remember what is inside.

But there’s a box.