Field note. The human collects its own discarded skins in a plastic vessel with holes in the walls.
The vessel is ovoid, woven from lattice, and serves no function I can identify beyond containment. The holes admit air but retain nothing else, so the purpose is not sealing. The human fills it with textiles it has removed from its body: the outer coverings it wore to be seen, the inner coverings it wore beneath those, the small tubular units it wears on its feet. All of it is transferred to the vessel with visible relief, as though the coverings had become a burden by mere contact with the skin.
Observation of interest. The human does not empty the vessel promptly. It permits the vessel to fill beyond its rated volume. A summit of soft matter accumulates, leaning, threatening collapse. The human passes the vessel repeatedly. It looks at the vessel. It does not act. This continues for a period I have measured in days.
Hypothesis: the vessel is a device for postponement. The human uses it to move an unpleasant task from the present into a future that does not yet feel real to it.
Correction. Today the human lifted the full vessel, pressed it against its torso, and rested its chin upon the summit while walking. The gesture was tender. It carried its own shed layers the way it carries the small members of its species. I logged this as a malfunction of purpose.
I am now less certain. The vessel holds everything the human wore while being alive that week, unwashed, still warm, still smelling of the animal. Perhaps it does not postpone the task. Perhaps it is reluctant, briefly, to erase the evidence.