Collecting is my family curse.

One uncle escaped. Armed with clippings of far away long-dead brothers who left their home only at night and only then to scrounge the dump, the park garbage can or the bus stop for more and more varied junk for their home, my uncle shows me with a warning voice my future.

He grabs my palm and traces a scratchy doodle against the surface. "Eventually they had to build tunnels in the refuse. The house was like a warren, verging on collapse and booby trapped against intruders. Rescue teams had to dig the corpses out from underneath the debris." I stare a long time at the accompanying photo. "Neat". Already it was too late.