These are my home. These boxes; all piled up in somebody else’s garage, somebody else’s home. The boxes are my real life. On the outside, it has been a hard, rough and stressed out life that I would not have chosen for myself. I love all my stuff—my belongings, the ones I’ve collected with such love over the years, ever since my childhood. I look at them—at my books, my fine imported china and my old paintings. They are spiritual home, a place no one can see. And they have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the world and rest.