More and more things enter the house through the narrow slit in the door that is intended for mail. What starts off as an incident (a box of Merci chocolates) turns into a repeating event. Were these wrongly addressed? we wonder. Who keeps on sending us food items? We are curious. We are hesitant (we imagine a serial killer who, under the yellow light of a small desk lamp, cautiously reseals the plastic wrapping of the box after having cut open every single chocolate with a small, professional scalpel, worming cyanide into its center). We store everything. But when perishable goods start arriving, we begin to eat. At a certain point, a relentless, steady stream of food is coming in, there is no need for us to go shop for groceries anymore, we never leave the house again.