I was thinking about a warehouse the other day. The story would be written by an eleven year-old, and it would be all about this huge warehouse he had locked away for some time. He kept on forgetting its contents, so he kept skipping the day he would open the warehouse once again. When he did, the entire contents of the warehouse fell. He almost didn't make it. There were boxes of airplanes and computer keyboards and ID pictures and envelopes and a dancing ballerina and the sound of mosquito hitting an electric repellant, like fireworks--and everything occurred. He found himself feeling like a sixty-six year old man standing on a chest-deep of detritus.