Brown box of things

Nothing lasts forever, and the cupboard is damp.

I had a dream i was fired and walked out politely, with everything i had ever collected, with my brown box of things. 

When i woke i found the morning haze of winter had joined me here, in the glaze of tired eyes, as intimate as the mirror post shower. 

It will be gently wiped down to reveal some sort of reflection. 

The sky will not clear and the sun does not take the bait, it is not reeled in. 

The sharp edges of the box have changed to this, soft and malleable, full of delight and eager to be taken elsewhere.