Box 4 Box
It starts with the shoulder muscles. Like tectonic plates shifting, the deltoids slithering under the trapezius to slowly migrate up near the neck. It feels like something inside is crawling underneath, tumors worming out of their attachments to your joints and bones. This, as you discover, is to allow your arms to rotate to a degree and angle previously thought impossible, so that your elbows slot in perfectly into the corners on either side of your head. Your hair follicles permeate the felt of the box, twisting around the fibers and forming deep attachments. They grow as necessary, like flowers blooming in time-lapse motion, to gain greater purchase as they begin to pull at the skin. It's stunning how pliable the flesh is, as it sloughs off the body, almost like a thick puddle of pink syrup, coating the inner walls of the box like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. Once it pools out, the first thing to go are your lips - helpful, since it prevents you from screaming about what's happening to your kneecaps, your eyes, the strange feeling inside as if your veins are part of a taffy pull. Before your brain begins to accommodate the shape of the box, each fold collapsing and warm blood draining out of your drooping sockets to some unseen cavern below the felt, the last thought going through your head is how terribly alone you are. But you mustn't worry. You'll be surrounded by your friends soon enough.