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You live in a box, within a larger box. This is called an apartment. Within an apartment complex.

You drive from your house-box to your work-box. Don’t forget your lunch-box. On the weekends you leave your house box for one hour, then return for twenty-three of them. Hours that is. On Sunday you repeat this activity.

On Monday you drive to your work-box again.

You call your friends to 'check-in' on them in their house-box. They are fine. I say I am fine also.


You check the weather compulsively, planning your outdoor hour to correspond with the time of maximum UV exposure. You wear shorts with your snow jacket because you are an optimistic person.

The sun is lovely. Then it rains. Melbourne. Take shelter in your box.

One more week till daylight savings. You will watch this extra hour of daylight through the windows of your box.

You feel sad for your suburb box and your city box. The shop boxes are ‘For Lease' and ‘For Let - call 'Mike'. They leave cardboard boxes outside on the ground. What are they for?

Maybe Mike knows.

You miss country Victoria where you are from. You read a warning from an old friend on Face-box. ‘Be careful, or they will come here in droves and infect us’.

Am I … ‘them’?

I guess I am.

You meal plan - You buy groceries and take them home in a box. You open smaller boxes of ingredients to try to inspire something that doesn't taste of your cooking.

But it tastes of your cooking, so you order takeaway from your favourite fine-dining restaurant. You eat it from a box in front of the television box.

Your mum irritates you. She lives in a box on a farm with grass around it. ’You have to stay positive' she says. ‘It’s nearly over’.

But I don't and it’s not.

You buy things on the internet. They are delivered in a box exactly nine times larger than the small box inside which contains the object you have ordered. You put the boxes in the recycling bin with the yellow lid because you are environmentally conscious.

Then you order another large box containing another small box with an object inside.

You need new towels. You buy them online and wait for a box.

You need a new brand of shampoo to make your hair look like it should. You buy some online and wait for a box.

You need a series of small and medium boxes for inside the cupboards, to organise your objects. You buy boxes online and wait for a box.

You go for a walk ensuring you stay in your five-kilometre box using the GPS on your phone.

You cover your face hole with a mask. Then back in the box.

I should remember that I'm lucky to have a box.

Aren't I?

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