Photo of leftover parcel wrapper, originally housing surprise analogue gifts.
Wrapping paper, discarded like dead butterflies on Christmas day, torn names littering corners and mixing with flies. The royal of hiding. Revelation as expectation. Disposable temptation. That magic sense of burlesque, prolonged by a quick shake, a curious ear, but then torn apart by wolfs fingernails. Savages, the lot of you.
We constructed a temple to our cloaks in some parallel time, a shrine to the remnants of mystery so easily accessible, so readily discarded, torn and forgotten. It was the forgetting that made them so worshipped, the veneration of the ignored. Shrapnel of the obscured - name tags and envelopes, padded cells and rip cords. All once part of a greater joy of unknowing. Now fragments, trinkets of a moment of excitement.