And these mammoth cases with their vast incarnation of shelves towered like the Titans themselves with names like Hemnes and Expedit, borrowed from some savage tongue, threatening to collapse upon the loose band of toddlers, each holding in his hand a meager orb of meat or the crust of some saccharin and cinnamon’d bread. Cases with great panes of glass, neither window nor mirror, poised to shatter and slice, cleaving muscle from the bones of the toddlers who romped unaware, insistent on their need to micturate or slumber, each wailing like a dying beast caught in some mighty trap. Above them, oblivious and myopic, their progenitors, paired up in multitudes to eradicate all peace and decency with their ignoble notion of Roman import: immortality. And everywhere half pencils and measuring sticks of paper and the corpulent men in their yolk-yellow blouses, both elusive and dismissive as if to only be observed from the corner of one’s eye, and the crate of ten-thousand lamb skins for the sole purpose of catching the bare steps of morning as men and women rise to face the day, the horrors and plagues to come.
Cormac McCarthy in the Ikea Living Room Section
Previous post: Recipe For Great-Grandma Irma’s Mexican Cornbread
Next post: Drafting at the Piggly Wiggly



{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
Goddamn right. Where’s your mega-home-store gonna be when the whole shitpot tumps over? What then, smart fella?