The houses all seem the same… cluttered up with millions of things that don’t do anything except get in your way and almost trip you over. It’s like… people used to spend their whole lives making cocoons for themselves out of furniture and ornaments and books and toys and pictures and any kind of shit they could find. As though they hoped they’d be born out of the cocoon as something else. Which some of them were, of course, but not in the way they hoped. – The Girl With All the Gifts, M. R. Carey