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.
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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?

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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