M sat in a room lined with layers of silk draped on the walls. He unpacked his baggage slowly, revealing layers, some thin and delicate, some ornate and intact yet clearly worn, some barely held together. Each piece had been wrapped and kept, occasionally tended to. M held each piece up to the light as he continued his quiet narrative. He let his friend E help him unpack, and E tried some items on. "You may have them, along with the stories they hold." E skipped outside and whirled around merrily, garnering attention and accolades from observers.
The clothes got caught, they tore and shredded, and E returned periodically to get reclothed. Soon he said "I cannot stay in this place," yet E stayed long enough to quickly dress and return to friends and audience outside, leaving M with the baggage. One warm spring evening E hurried in and saw that the room was empty, the walls were barren, and M stood alone. "Where are my clothes?"
"The clothes in the bag were mine. I let you have them and I have no more for you."
"Are you sure? Maybe you have another bag? Yes I can find more but I like yours. Are you sure?"
M stood silently, arms at his sides and palms out.