Lincoln logs of jersey wall. The dunes of deforestation. Isometrics in the honey bucket. The break room between the two storage rooms, where we keep our cussing boys. Ice chips that sparkle. Piles of this, piles of that. Whoever designated these particular items to these particular piles is long gone. Now we’re left with these piles, for what-reason we haven’t a clue. Piles of ice chips; piles of jersey wall; empty trash bins and overflowing trash bins. They’ll remain on the concrete in the storage rooms. Collection day isn’t anytime soon. All we would need to do is make the phone call. Nobody bothers.
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