text: I'm a shelf. People coming to the supermarket passing by me would leave a comment: oh, such a well-made shelf, you will be sold so well. Sometimes I felt bad and I talked to other items displayed around me, they would just tell me: you shouldn't have anything to worry about, you are such a nice shelf, you will be sold well, I know that you are so nice and well built, damn, I've never seen a shelf nicer than you. I'd say thank you. But it doesn't help with my sadness. I usually didn't speak out the second sentence. And yes, my sadness continued. Yes, I seemed to be a shelf that should be proud of myself. People passing by would stop by me and stare at me in astonishment: such a well-made shelf. I did appreciate their compliments. But there was no way I could feel proud. Cuz they'd pick the less nice ones and take them home. And my sadness continued. One day came an artist. She saw me and stopped in front of me, and repeated the compliment that I'd heard for a thousand times: such a unique, well-made shelf. And then she took me. But my sadness continued. Instead of bringing me home with her and put me in her bedroom or study room, she brought me and put me there in the Artwork Exhibition Hall, together with all the art works. Now all the art works and people coming to the hell would stare at me and say: damn, such a well-made shelf, you are actually art. I did appreciate their compliments, but my sadness continued. And I stopped talking about it now. Cuz I knew what they would reply: damn, you should be proud, I've never seen a better-made shelf. One night a thief broke into the hall, in the darkness and in a hurry, he tried to take away all the art works as he could, together with me. I was carried out onto a car and and the car's drove away. After the car arrived, he moved us all into his apartment very quickly in the darkness. His apartment was so small and crowded and messy. When he saw me he got furious, yelling: I worked so hard to actually carry a goddamn shelf home. Thought it was a big stuff that'd be worth a lot, fuck you, wasted my time. Then he put me away in a corner and forgot about me and within a week, menaged to sell all the other art works. The thief becomes rich and now is moving to a bigger apartment: when he's packaging his things he looks at me and commenting: oh, such a nice shelf! And he decides to take me with him to his new apartment. His new apartment is really nice. And he's happy. He merrily downloads all his stuff off the truck and carries us all into the house. He puts me in his bedroom, right beside the window. He then starts to put all his little coats on to me. They feel heavy. They feel pretty heavy. My sadness is now all gone.