When I was a child I played with old celebration cards, mainly old birthday and Christmas cards. They became corners in which to hide from unseen enemies and they could be changed to create different shapes, rectangles, squares and triangles of adventure, whole houses with their own rooms and corridors. A labyrinthe of mystery and chaos. My characters were interestingly shaped rubber pencil tops. They were characters in my stories; and they had their own monsters and shadows to slay. They would weave their way in and out of white card doorways and swirling patterns of festive baubles and pastel flowers.
I spent hours playing this way, sometimes not speaking for several hours unless one or both of my parents asked me a direct question. When I wasn't doing that I was reading. I could do that for several hours without speaking too, I was already becoming proficient at self-sufficiency in a small yet important way.
