Inside a box a man inside a box. A man inside a box, a box inside a man, one contained within the other. That’s where he’s kept. It’s where he’s always been, where he was born. He’s always been a man kept inside a box. Within a box he’s contained, kept inside. He keeps the box inside himself. He’s always been kept inside a box that contains him. A man inside a box with a box inside that contains him. A box where he sleeps. A box he keeps inside him, it’s where he’s kept, where he’s been kept. Always has been, since the beginning, birth. It’s where he eats and drinks. A cardboard box that contains a man inside and nothing else. That is how it’s been inside a man a box with his body inside. A man inside a box and nothing else and no way of getting out. Inside a man there’s a box that contains him, a box inside his body. A shoebox, a cardboard box of no great size. Inside it is bigger than it looks. There isn’t a lot of space in which to move. There isn’t a lot inside. There is only a man inside a box, a man with a box inside him, no way out. Picture that. There’s no way in. For a man inside a box there’s nothing outside the box. A man with a box inside has no way of getting out, of opening it up. A man with a box inside contains a man inside a box. That and nothing else. A box inside a man, a skull inside a brain, a heart inside a chest. No way of removing what’s kept inside from its container. No way of entering. The box won’t open. A man without a brain inside, without a heart, without a voice only a box and what it contains inside. A box that contains a man inside, a heart, brain and voice inside. Inside a box that contains a man and keeps him inside the box he keeps inside there’s no way of leaving. There’s no way in, no way of entering the box he contains and that he’s kept inside. Outside him there’s no outside, there isn’t anything outside the box inside him, outside him there’s only the box that contains him. It’s kept inside himself, head, heart, stomach and he’s kept within it. With no way to see out. With no way of getting in. Imagine. It’s where he wakes up. A man inside a box wakes up inside a box inside himself and nowhere else. It’s in his chest, his neck, his brain. A box with a man inside and nothing else. That and nothing else is all the box contains. There isn’t enough space inside the box for anything else but a man with a box containing him inside. Large enough for a pair of shoes, large enough to keep him contained. He contains a cardboard box large enough to keep a man contained inside. Within the box there’s a man inside a box. That and nothing else, imagine. Just enough space to outstretch the arms. Inside it is larger than it appears. But for a man kept inside a box there’s no way to see how the box appears. It appears like a man, a box made of cardboard, that and nothing else.

Inside a man inside a box a voice inside that can’t get out. A man inside a box with a voice. No means of entry, no exit, picture that there’s nothing outside. Inside a box containing a man who contains a box containing a man there’s nothing outside the box. There’s nothing inside except for a man, a voice, another box with another man, another voice, inside. That and nothing else. A man shrinks inside the box in himself. In a box a man grows large and shrinks. He doesn’t fit inside. He slots into place. It’s always been like this, imagine, from birth.  A box containing a heart, a box containing a voice, a man inside. It’s enough to make your bones ache, enough to trouble your stomach. A box with a voice inside, a box that’s inside a man, a man inside a box and nothing else. A brain inside a skull, a tongue inside a mouth, an eye inside its socket, it’s enough to make you wince. A man inside a box and he can’t get out and no one can get in. But if he can’t get out then how did he get in? A voice says that’s how it’s always been but there must have been a before, a time when he was able to go in and come out, spend the night inside the box, eat and sleep, wake and leave. A time before the box was stapled shut, cellotaped. A man inside a box must shrink himself to fit inside. There must have come a time when a man saw in a box a way of staying safe, secure, and contained. A box that a man has inside him and that he goes in to stay safe, secure and contained not knowing inside the box there’s no way of getting out. The flaps of brown cardboard are stapled in place. Inside a box a man inside who hears a voice might think there is someone else beside him in the box. But there is no one else, he is there, he slots in place, that and nothing else. Birthed in a box, yes, imagine, there was no time before entering through the cardboard flaps. There was no man before the box that contains him. No other voice in the box but his own. No one else there in the box but for a man containing a box that contains a man inside. In his chest, in his skull, a cardboard box containing a man, and in that box a man containing a box, and in that box a man is contained. Birth, that’s how he came to be kept inside a cardboard box with only another man, another cardboard box, a voice and nothing else.  A voice that can’t be heard outside the box, that can’t be understood inside the box, that sounds like someone else, even though there’s no one else in the box. If only there were someone else in the box, but this box with a man inside is only large enough to contain a man and no one else. He fits inside, but it’s tight. A man must shrink to fit inside a box inside himself. The arms can be outstretched, but only just. A voice can be heard, but only just. Inside a man a voice can’t be heard. It must come outside. But there’s no way out. He can’t be heard. There isn’t an outside for a man kept inside a box inside his brain. For a man inside a box there isn’t anything inside him except for a box with a man inside. That is all he contains. Picture that and nothing else. A box in a brain, a man in a heart, a voice in the chest, yes, since birth. Inside a box a man, inside a socket an eye, inside a mouth a tongue.

A box in the throat, a man in the eye, a voice in the brain. Inside a box containing a man there’s a box contained in him containing another man containing another box, stapled shut. Arms outstretched, a voice that can’t be heard outside. Inside him a box is contained and he’s kept inside it, in the skull, with no way in. No way out of a box in a man that contains no doors, no windows, no means of entry or exit. No way into a man that is kept inside a box and has been since birth. A voice that’s contained inside a box in the throat, a man’s neck, that can’t be heard outside what contains it. Inside a box a man can’t hear any voice outside. There is a voice inside him, inside a box, but it can’t get out, can’t be heard outside. He hears it inside the box, inside himself, in his skull, in his chest, imagine. No openings, a man closed inside. It fits him exactly, moulded to a man’s outline, it fixes him in place, keeps him inside himself, in his voice, his eye, a box with sealed flaps. A thin metal band keeps each flap sealed. Inside a man a box is contained and he is sealed inside, inside a box without openings. A man in a box since birth can’t break out without breaking the box, without breaking himself. Here a man is safe and secure, trapped inside a box inside himself, his mouth, his stomach. That is the only place where a man inside a box can be found, inside his brain. Without any way of opening up, of closing shut, how can a man go outside a box he keeps inside himself, how will he go beyond himself, where he’s always been, since birth, without breaking open a box that keeps a voice contained. For inside a skull a man contains a box inside himself that contains a man there is no way out unless he breaks open.

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Sam Glover is a writer from London whose work has appeared before in 3:AM Magazine, Ligeia Magazine, ergot and Don’t Submit! His pamphlet of cut-up hotel reviews Travelogics is available from tallfingerpress https://www.tallfingerpress.store/ Instagram: @abrupt.encounter ; Twitter: @bruptencounter