My self-diagnosed mild autistic tendencies cause me to find great delight in things that express order and uniformity. I suspect that's part of what makes me love LEGO as much as I do—clicking the elements together actually calms me down. As does making pixel art, sliding elements into a zoomed-in grid. I love things that stack or that have compartments. I love airline meals, not because of the taste, but because of the way each little slab of food fits into its tray, which in turn slides into a wheeled steam compartment, which in turn snaps into a locker. (It makes me wish my belly were filled with stacks of rectangular stomachs.) If I could, I would live in a sterile white room with no corners and compartments in which to stow every item.
(Or course I'd grow tired of that bubble room in short order. I also like dirty log cabins and Marshall stacks and human genitalia. But I can feel a part of my brain that finds a sense of order soothing.)
Point is, I squealed a little when I saw "Casulo"—a small crate filled with all the furniture one needs to live a modest life—unfolded by its designers in the video below. While it's an admirable bit of prototype engineering, like a thesis project for a Doctorate of Ikea, it's the clear tone its connotive portent sends ringing in my head that makes it most laudable. To be able to cast out all one's things, step into a pregnant room, and unfold a new home in a few minutes? That's a seductive fantasy.