Pill bottles are aesthetically pleasing, difficult to open, and contain worlds of wonder and terror. Pill bottles are aesthetically pleasing in that some of the older bottles are of a particular brown hue of glass, the color of which is quite soothing when seen in the sunlight. The sunlight, in its turn, fades the label on each bottle, turning it from a stark black on brown or white paper to something more of a grey on tan or acidified-yellowish background. When combined with the brown-tinted light that flows through an old pill bottle in the afternoon, the result is delightful, as you most certainly know. The cork stopper, from cork now well over a century old, rests easily in the lip of the bottle, its job of protecting the contents of its particular bottle from the ravages of the outside world long since finished, it sits supreme in that accomplishment alone, knowing that it has reached, in the world of cork-bottle-stoppers, a state of Zen, of being in the bottle, yet not being necessary, yet still serving a purpose (that of an aesthetic which the cork cannot hope to comprehend)  to both the bottle (keeping dust and flies out) and to the trained eye of the viewer--for there is nothing as terrifying as an uncorked bottle or a lidless box: what remedies and secrets could have escaped from these containers? I need to stop writing now and continue this in the morning, but at least I have a good start for...well, an essay for class, actually, so if this doesn't make very much sense, then I apologize. Sorta.