Last night, as the temperature began to drop precipitously from 69ºF to what would surely be a low of 62ºF, I made camp in what I have decided to call the Chamber Where Cardboard Goes to Die (I am forced to use Fahrenheit measurements for this record because I have not as yet been able to find the legendary Manufacturer’s Script for Amending Said Thermostat in Accordance with the Gospel of St. Celsius).
From what I have been able to determine some months or even years ago a race of cardboard box creatures dwelt peacefully here, grazing happily on dust and lint. Tragically they were viciously set upon and slain by an unknown predator, and their contents – mostly RPGs, books, comics, and toy soldiers to judge by the evidence – wantonly strewn about the landscape.
 |
| Chamber Where Cardboard Goes to Die |
I have found it convenient to use the burial mounds of the slain cardboardites to drape my clothes each evening. The remains of the box folk provide a surprisingly dry, if dusty environment and I believe it would be difficult for a predator to come upon me without giving away its presence as it stumbled and crunched its way through the cairns of literary ephemera.
No comments:
Post a Comment