A man walks in through a nondescript entry and is presented with a catalog of boots, so that he may choose according to his whim, fancy, or usual preference: cowboy, knee-high, stiletto, fur-lined, fisherman, mid-calf, Wesco, hiking, rain, and the like.
After inserting the appropriate number of bills into the vending machine, pressing a few buttons to customize his selection, a key drops out of the machine with a room number etched into it.
He finds his way to the room and enthusiastically enters, dives into an enormous and infinite pile of boots, and begins, like a child on a quest for the toy in a cereal box, to search for the woman, who is inevitably at the very very back, if at all.
for Paul Foster Johnson
It must be its ability to embody wetness better than other items of food and beverage. Raw oysters even more wet than water, I would wipe my eyes with one in a desperate moment. Or rather, desperate for something that could act as a tonic, I would feed it to the next person who was in danger of drying out, yes you.