I found a wooden crate on the street and brought it upstairs.  Suddenly everything before me was interrogated as to whether it could be contained inside the crate.  It was too big for heavy things, for example, my father’s old Flying magazines, and too rough inside for most anything—my summer clothes would thus stay in their Xerox paper box.

The crate occupied a space slightly larger than the empty space it held inside itself for a couple of years until one morning I decided to put it back out on the street.  In the lobby, my upstairs neighbor and his teenage son held the elevator door open for several minutes debating whether they should take it back upstairs, but finally, they just helped me carry the crate to the curb.  People stopped and stood before it, trying to figure out what they had that could fit inside it.  An hour later it was gone.