Delivery Truck / Mike Piskur

The large rectangular truck stops outside of your house, down the block, around the corner. It could be brown, red, blue, yellow, white, orange, almost every imaginable color. The truck can arrive from any direction. The cargo it carries can be anything - food, medicine, live animals, mattresses, clothing, diapers, books, sexual implements, rare artifacts, contraband hidden in a ceramic cast, blood samples - and might originate in any part of the world. Anything is possible.
Hide by the front door and wait for the driver, likely clad in the same color as the truck, to emerge with one or more parcels in hand and run down the block to make her deliveries. With only a moment to take advantage, emerge from the front door and skulk toward the truck. Climb inside and find yourself amid everything civilization has to offer, each box a miracle of logistics and commerce, the product of a silent symphony that delivers all needs and wants to your doorstep.
Rummage through the boxes in search of something unnameable and unexpected, an unknown unknown, an authentic experience.
Try on a blue polo shirt (size XL) and become a 46-year-old accountant and father of three. Feel the pressure to cover two mortgages and save for college tuition.
Turn on a new iPad. Select a language and imagine what life would be like if you spoke Arabic, Mandarin, Greek or Swedish.
Wish you had something cool and productive to do with such amazing technology like the people in the iPad commercials who create slick business presentations or emotional videos for a parent’s birthday.
Open and smell a tube of a plant-based face cream from Switzerland. Think about the slow perfecting of personal care products over the course of millennia. Apply the cream to your cheeks and pretend to be a caveman experimenting with various natural materials. Grunt in delight.

Find a very large empty box. Get inside. Hope to never get out.

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