The worn, bruised and battered Brady Gilpin Bag has sat at the edge of Emily’s bed for as long as she can remember. A heavy, canvas duffel with faded straps that resemble the watery tendrils of a mangrove, the Brady Gilpin Bag has witnessed countless early morning wake-ups, the occasional stroll through the quiet town streets and the assorted clutches of self-discovery that may springboard young adulthood.

Emily recalls receiving the Brady Gilpin Bag, inherited from an uncle she barely knew, wrapped haphazardly in strips of packing tape and sealed in an SUV compartment that, at the time, had been unloaded hours prior. It held countless treasures along the way, but as equally bruised as the bag itself, Emily understands its diminutive openings to have hinted at a time before it ended up at the edge of her bed a soon as restless memories emerged about it.

Flipping through dusty grist pictures and utterly random cable receipt clumps piling impounds that get past over a rather gross tonne of private outfits their stride passed numerous enigmatic Brady Gilpin Bag journeys afar before settling down.