There's no reason at all. There is no reason. Reason is just a word for the way you put those things in boxes. Raisin, risen, rosin . . . . any of these words would make as much sense. You don't know why you put the crap in these boxes: It's just what you do. Your mom and dad left you their boxes when they died. They had the boxes from their parents. They can only be piled so high until they collapse of their own waterlogged weight.
How many times have you moved these moldy boxes now? When did you start realizing that you'd never again open that one? That's when they get marked for handing over. You will cross over and the box will be handed over. It's a cross handed deal. It's a thin deal at best.
The natives who thought that taking a photo was like taking a part of your soul were so right that it’s scary. It's not that taking the picture robs you of anything: It robs the ones you leave behind of a clear picture of you. A memory is a strong fiber bond in your capable brain. A photo of you does nothing but misfire the synapses and cause confusion up there where real memory takes place. And it causes the memory to fail to forget. Forgetting can be a good thing.
Did you ever hear the story about the lady who had a teenage son who got killed in a car crash? He was an only child. She had home movies of him; tons of them. It was like those deals where folks go to DisneyWorld and spend the whole time recording the visit so they can come home and put it on the TV and say, "Look! There we were!"
Well, after the boy got killed, this lady would go down to the basement once in a while to watch the movies of her son. Then she started going down there a few times a week. Then she started going down there every night. Then she started staying down there watching those images of a dead soul over and over and over, all the time. Not sleeping. Not eating. Not living. All because of an image of something that no longer existed.
She was killed by flickering dots and stable dots and lots and lots of dots. Raisin dots. Rosin dots. Risen dots, rising from the flat paper to infect her with holographic dreams come true enough to waste her into more little dots to be put in boxes and given to the next of kin.