Dearest Boxes,

 You are made of cardboard, so I love your compounding skills and your [costing little] way of thinking.

But you are also flammable, bash-in-able, rained-on-able, and spider-home-making-able, so I do not love you.

You are useful for storing things in, and so roomy that I feel obliged to fill you to the [highest point or part; apex] with all manner of things, so I love you.

But you gain [quantities of mass and heaviness] quickly and it takes what seems like [two times, as in succession] the time for you to lose it all again, so I do not love you.

When I was a [person between birth and full growth], I could sit comfortably in even the smallest of your kin, so I love you for the hours of fun you afforded me.

But I am not a child, and only [a cold, large container to store perishable food and drink in] boxes can fit me now – and how often do I get to have such a large box? Not often, unfortunately – and so, I do not love you.

You have helped me to transfer my things from point A to point B with relative ease and trip-saving, and so, I love you.

But my [small, domesticated carnivore from the family Felidae] is endeared to poking around in your contents and you do nothing to stop him – thus, you do nothing to stop the breaking of said contents – and so, I do not love you.

I have a time-machine. It's a cardboard box that I sharpied "Time Machine" on.

And since we’re on the topic of cats, may I remind you of Schrodinger’s cat? Put a cat in a box, and, because you cannot see it, it is both [having life; existing] in the box, and also [no longer living; inanimate] in the box, because, really, how could you or it tell? Only the box truly knows.

This is another of those [of or pertaining to philosophy] conundrums. My love is inside of you, box. I cannot see it, and it cannot see itself. I do not know if it is alive and well, or dead as a doornail. Only you truly know, box.

I shall have to wait and unpack it to find out.

With many regards, affectations, and enthusiasm,

~Jennie