I’ll try to record my inventory: Stapler, paper, scissors, monitor, keyboard. Diet cola cans galore. Cigarette machine. Lima beans, printer, desk, chair. Pencils.
We’re at my work station. It’s in a state of disarray. Paperclips are scattered everywhere. There’s a giant rubber torso; an ink pen with super grip; and a lamp that never stops burning. I’m wearing my safety helmet. The television is on. There’s a picture of myself wearing a belt, next to a picture of my wife posing indecently, and a picture of my dog wearing a belt.
Metal garbage can. Plastic human hand. All the plants are fake. Time to take a break:
Mannequin Secretary Kim enters the office with a little fox that is wearing a belt. Now her twin appears with a duplicate fox wearing the same style of belt. They all climb into the wheelbarrow that’s atop my desk. The disorder increases.
Plastic human knees upend a jar of rolling glass eyeballs. So much depends upon that translucent robe concealing the tin of tuna fish.
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