When I was eleven, I moved with my family to a small suburb in New Jersey. With us, we brought generations of sentimental clutter. As time passed we continued to shed the debris of our suburban existence, which ultimately settled to the bottom of the house. Loosely organized mounds piled higher and higher, becoming archaeological cross-sections of our family’s cumulative nostalgia. As a teen, I would spend bored or depressed afternoons and nights rummaging through the evidence of my family’s past lives, trying to inherit feelings from objects I had little to no history with. Over the years the function of the basement changed for me. At various points it was a rehearsal space, a studio, a place to skate and somewhere to play video games. Ultimately, the basement was a place for me to be alone.