The year is 2075. Two young adults sit on the wooden floor of an attic under a small wall of record cartons.
The pair has fallen in a recognizable rhythm: grab a box, open the lid, peer inside, pull things out, laugh, read, question, cry over the contents, conscientiously put things back in the order they found them.
“Oh my god, is this grandma?!” one exclaims to the other, carefully holding out a photograph in a mylar sleeve. “You have the same exact nose!”
It continues like this for some time.
Then, one opens the lid of a box and finds a small pile of fabric. For a moment, there is bewilderment, but then, one by one, they pull out the series of colorful face masks and place them on the floor in front of them.

At this moment, it is ten am. I sit, my back resting against the armrest. My legs extending in front of me, reaching across the seats of the dove gray second-hand West Elm pull-out couch that lives in the small guest bedroom of my apartment. I am wearing slippers.

In another universe, it is also ten am. I am in a basement, slouched over a height-adjustable desk, sitting in a very serviceable office chair, under mediocre florescent lighting, my back to a window that faces into a room with windows that face outside. I am wearing shoes.