I dreamt last night of a box of my grandfather’s possessions, buried in a remote corner of the basement. We’d found them while re-tiling the floor; there was a power cord that we couldn’t find the plug for, and we followed it into the ground, digging up first a power strip then a box of old newspaper clippings and photographs. My grandfather knew things, terrible things. Burying things is a curious act; it only foreshadows our own ends, leaving in question what, and when, will be unearthed.