Now I know why people have children. It's because of the STUFF. "Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday. HERE'S SOME STUFF." The stuff builds up. Most of it is special. Where's it gonna go? It's gotta go somewhere. GIVE IT TO THE KIDS! We all end up dying and becoming no better than powdered prunes, but this STUFF of ours is amassing into pyramids and empires! Empires of stuff - relics and icons and sweaters and drawings and clothes so perfectly conformed to now perished bodies. Photocopies of photos of paintings of grandpa wearing clothes rescued from an early grave, still walking around on someone. 100 year old raccoon coats. Clocks. Vinyl LPs with completely infantile music that the infants loved so much. Bags and bags of cameras, as if never able to upgrade fast enough to keep pace with disappearing reality. Newspapers - whole newspapers - stacks and stacks of them - possibly holding some crucial, critical, meaningful memories - or a standard recipe for strawberry shortcake. And death notices of someone, whom someone else has since forgotten, and passed on, themselves. And the worst of it all is this: Tiny, tiny harbingers of meaning - tiny little missives of encoded emotions crusted away and sequestered, freeze-dried in perpetuity, until you come along, and all of it - all of this history - flakes off, fills up the air, and congests you like mummy-rot - you are shaken in catharsis - in a death-grip - you are sneezing for your life - wheezing and gasping - as if the cold dead hand of indifference, is pulling you down with all the others... down, down, away from the STUFF... No! Let me have just one last look! "Please. It's time." And on it marches. Body ash of humanity.