The earth shook. The sea roared. A far greater disaster followed. And then…
There is a small house solitary standing by the seaside. A pigtail-braided girl is living there alone since that day. Mail is no longer delivered, but even this morning she’s hanging out the laundry as usual. She’s unaware that all around her, the clothes-pegs are quarreling, the pillow argues with the umbrella about the outside world, and the new toothbrush is unsuccessfully trying to be polite with the silent, old ones.
Do things exist to be used until they are consumed or broken? Are they afraid of being thrown away once their life cycle is complete?
