The Vault of Time
Whenever I go home to my parents’ house, the place where I was a kid, it’s like stepping into a time capsule from 1978-1994. “My room” there is full of old records, toys, mementos, and other things I felt very passionately about for one reason or another. Now I know where I get my aesthetic preferences.
It’s past time I went through all this stuff and figured out what’s what. I feel like an archaeologist and figure I’ll catalog all the artifacts.









