12-29-92 - "And the beet fritter goes on and on and.."

Old Man Winter nabbed us last night, forced us to dwell and dawdle amongst the walls.  There was a close-shaven mutiny that came of naught.  The Colossal Lozenge Heads, being the fanatics of the time, evoked the still-warm spirit of Clam before falling to the floor.  Example:  "Seize the keys." (spoken to the Bull, Spartacus) "Drive the moment." & "Car, pay, dee...um."

Ran into Keiffer again.  Rude dude, deserves a recheck, dig?  Ugliness.  Again the common strength symbol threw us together to stare at each other's absurdities.  Again, we could only think of those women, the ones we shared that sign of strength with and how they were, in the end, stronger than we'd like.  Sheeet.

Pulling on his last shoe the clerk returned to the inventory.  For seventeen days he'd been looking at those damned boxes, damned because they were unlabeled.  The fact that they were stacked thirty feet high and covered the entire 1,200 square feet of the warehouse invaded his dreams at night and caused the strange, yellow tint to his eyes.

He opened another lid.  Inside the box, about 4 feet square, was a tin contraption.  Without touching it he examined it from all angles.  He finally decided that it was a bizarre merry-go-round, it being round from above, and tin eaves hung down from the top piece, painted red with gold trim.  Beneath was a space taken up by all forms and colors of something he could not distinguish.  Sticking out from amongst these at odd intervals were long metal poles that each ended in a dark, geometric shape.  There were five of them in all, one a sphere, another a cube, a pyramid, and two unfamiliar shapes with strange configurations of sides and corners.

He snapped his pen out and wrote in his notebook:  "B5498 - Junk."  He looked at his watch.  It was only 8:30.

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