From out of the muggy heat I drifted into the Co-Op in search of potatoes.
It was dimly lit, and cool.
A feeling of unexplained melancholy overcame me as I sloped around, looking for bargains.
What could it be?
It was an aeolian chord, a minor seventh, produced as a constant drone by the air-conditioning system, kind of disturbing and comforting at the same time.
Almost as though Eraserhead had blended seamlessly with the Stepford Wives in a practical and real-life environment.
I thought about retuning the air-conditioning system to a jazzy major seventh, a chord that would raise positive expectations in their customers, causing them to pile special offers into their wire baskets at a rate of knots.
I found the potatoes, by the way.