In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that I am not in fact a person but rather a motley collection of cardboard boxes stacked into a clumsy pyramid in the spare bedroom whose ideal use has never been satisfactorily determined and which therefore stands as a vague testament to messy lives and unfinished business and slightly embarrassing domestic illogic. By way of total honesty I should let you know that I am not a pyramid of cardboard cartons but rather a pattern of colorful stippled stains on summer-warm pavement, as if someone had set an unfinished piece of furniture outside to paint it, like a pine bookcase for instance, so as not to fill the house with fumes or ruin the floor, and has since taken it back into the house and set it in its proper place. Now that we're being candid I ought to inform you that I am not a pattern of colorful stains but rather a beard of bees.