What do we collect? Thoughts, memories, unexpressed feelings, wounds, little treasures of nostalgia, the sins of our family, the things we have seen, the things we wish we could forget, pictures/books of our favorite things, mirrors upon mirrors of personality, and sacred volumes of belief. All these things clutter and collect inside of us, piling on top and mixing together. And we never really know what is hidden in this interior chaos; for sometimes things shake of their dust, step into the light, and utterly surprise us. And perhaps this is where art, expression/poetry/literature, stem from. We synthesize, verbalize, and discover things in this chaos that are worth expressing. From the chaos of our collections come the seemingly structured self-expression of the truth hiding behind stacks of books and under floorboards in the collection of our souls.