Stuff about Things

The phone book is full of descriptions of phones, but no numbers. Their attributes are delineated in great detail: some you think you remember.

The remote only works in other people’s homes. You press, and a channel changes, hundreds of miles away. Do you even know these people?


The tin opener seals up the tin as it opens it. You watch it, tearing and sealing, round and round. Is it the tin, somehow healing itself?


The Hoover hoovers up the dust of Shakespeare. How did it all get here, in these carpets? But there’s no denying it’s him, in his entirety.


The dog says things when no-one else is there. Mutters them, so you can’t be sure, but then looks at you in a way that leaves no doubt.


You finally play your old vinyl again, but when you do, there’s no music, only smells. Burnt cheese, an exposed river bed, a pissed-on rug.


The phone rings, and, when you answer it, milk begins to spurt from the earpiece. It’s delicious, but you feel guilty drinking from a phone.


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