[ Nigel is fond of things in boxes; things in jars as well. But where a jar might imply sterility or preservation (the smell of formaldehyde, the satisfaction that comes when looking at thing meant to be inside so cleanly taken out), a box implies something more personal, something meant to kept tidy and private. Back at home, he has a crawlspace full of boxes, each containing a different sacred thing: the rubbings of tombstones, very old decks of cards. Polaroids of his mother.
Kneeling in front of the box, Nigel reaches inside to pull the clothes out, one article at a time, taking note of the way the thing is folded so as to do the same once he's finished. He presses some of the fabric to his nose, searching for the smell of bleach or detergent or human skin. ]
➝ strange new creatures to scavenge your pores
Kneeling in front of the box, Nigel reaches inside to pull the clothes out, one article at a time, taking note of the way the thing is folded so as to do the same once he's finished. He presses some of the fabric to his nose, searching for the smell of bleach or detergent or human skin. ]