Attic

The past is an old armchair in the attic, the present an ominous ticking sound, and the future is anybody's guess.

James Thurber

Clutter. That's what comes to mind, right along with the dust and disarray. Stuff no longer thought useful in the daily scheme; not yet ready to be disowned or discarded, but dangerously close to being forgotten unless somehow rediscovered. And as more stuff is piled on top, it is quite plausible that the odds of that happening would seem greatly reduced, unless there has been sown a viable, lasting connection to this object with an event, incident, or, more often, personality, that will spring to mind if and when the right buttons are pushed.

Good stuff. And bad stuff. It all gets saved. And forgotten, too. There is no discrimination. There is just time, and it passes. Sometimes it passes into obscurity. Then, good or bad, it's gone forever.