February 11th, xxxy
IN CONTEMPLATION, PRECIOUS IS sat around boxes of handmade wooden toys. He keeps asking for Kamil's advice but Kamil has nothing to give.
His role here is to understand why, after seven years Precious thinks it's the right time to give away his mother's handmade treasures.
Precious scoffs when Kamil says this. 'Treasures' as if the actual representation of his mother's skill is not something to treasure.
"It's gathering dust and space. It makes no sense hoarding them," he says, absentmindedly twirling a suspiciously looking hybrid mermaid toy.
Kamil looks around the room—at what used to be his parents bedroom turned into a storage unit. Half of the boxes are who-knows-what is stored there, the other half are office necessities and supplies.
