A pile of stuff, 12 feet high, sits aching, rotting, silently pleading to be cleaned up and maintained, contained. Many a night, guilty pleasure reality television, sometimes too gross and disturbing for “both eyes open” viewing. A wince or three is normal. But it’s amazing, at how much the trainwreck program continues, looking away becomes impossible and I sink further and further into my seat, unable to look away, simultaneously fascinated by this absurd reality (that I thankfully never had to experience). It is a deterrent against materialism and the collection and obsession with things, though I’m sure I’m not perfect and have my own faults. But it is mentally gut-wrenching to experience, even from the periphery. What could possibly possess a person to do that? Obsession over little plastic bottles, toys, and expired food from 28 years ago. Skippy Peanut Butter that expired in 1993 or 4, when Biggie was still alive. Surprised the that entire jar has not just turned to dust. What must that possibly taste like? Good things are all around us, but oftentimes get shadowed by the hoard. The hoard, a personification of our shadow selves, our conscious selves yearning to break out and be free, crushed by the overbearing size and weight of the trauma that came before.