One thing seems clear: love comes and goes, but the floor… ahh, the floor, she is always there. Lie with her, cover her, walk on her, she’ll always support you. But she hides her true feelings until you’re old and brittle. Then she breaks your hip.
The thing is, I had this dream about titanic, red-eyed, space-faring beasts with glass-encased passengers on their backs. During the meeting later that day at work, the grown-ups were talking about revenue or something (talk about wasting time) and I thought, “I cannot speak of this revenue. Giant beasts are – even now – hurtling through space!” The only thing that might have given me away was my wild-eyed stare. Oh, and the small pieces of paper that lay scatterred on the table before me. Okay, and the high-pitched noise I was making way back in my throat. But those things had nothing to do with the dream – I’m just not good at meetings.
I had an entrepreneurial episode during my holiday inspired by a high brain fever. I decided to come up with a way to meet the demands of the dead body parts market. Now this may seem somewhat grim at first glance, but with an eye on the saccharine brand of rustic charm peddled by such personalities as the impressively banal Martha Stewart, I may be able to spin this into something desirable to even the most apprehensive of rubes. Namely, a chain of quaint shops I’d like to call “Necrobilia.”
I would position these as forward-thinking repositories (or mausoleums) of showy domestic trifles, mostly made up of bits of polished, arranged or otherwise garnished biomass. To be sure, the consideration of these items as additions to one’s interior design (or costume jewelry) would require that one think “outside the box”–a point I would illustrate with festive coffins. As well, highlighted selections would be arranged daily at displays called “Remains of the Day.”