Caffeine and paint thinner.

When I was led into this room for the first time almost two years ago, I was fascinated by what I called "familiar relics of a familial past," the shelves and on them, boxes and tubs and totes and cans and bottles full of things that were once important, timely, and necessary, but that have since been stored, saved for posterity or just in case they become useful to us again. Fascinated.

Like anything, familiarity tends to dull the edges of fascination, but in looking for a blip today and in the quiet moments when I remind myself to breathe, I noticed them again, waiting.

This is going to sound ridiculous, but I felt oddly in touch with them, comforted that their skills don't degrade from waiting or that their purpose doesn't wane from wondering why they're not enacting it. They are what they are, curiously in concert with one another, and edges sharp as ever.