He opens the door and it makes a protesting, creaking noise; it hasn't been used in some time and seems to feel resentful of being called back into service. It's dim in here and his hand fumbles for the light cord. The light comes on but, somehow, it seems only to highlight the gloom rather than dispel it. All around, boxes are placed randomly. Said boxes are covered in a small layer of dust.
He approaches the first one and blows at the dust, an action which only succeeds in producing a small but perfectly formed cloud of dusty particles and a slight but irritating cough at the back of his throat. (What an odd thing to say. Like he's going to cough from some other part of his anatomy. An elbow maybe?)
The boxes are all pretty much empty; for the most part, just a label on each one. He browses through them, smiling as he goes, gently wiping at a layer of dust here and there (but carefully, so as not to provoke another miniature coughstorm). Eventually, he spies the one he was which he was searching for and gathers it up, leaving the way he came and pinging off the light as he leaves.
He takes the box back downstairs. The curious eyes are there waiting. With great ceremony, he turns the box towards them. They can see the writing on the side. It simply says, in rather crude capital letters written in a child-like spidery scrawl, "Slack".
He clears his throat (a little bit of boxy dust still clinging in there). They wait expectantly, breath baited.
"My name is Nick," says he, "and I'm a lazy blogger. But I'm going to get better. Well, as soon as I get back from holiday. Which is next week. So, probably next month, I guess."
The overwhelming feeling of anticlimax in the room is palpable yet not unexpected.