On a green grass-covered hill, there is a house. The house is owned by
Mr. Swash, who lives alone ever since his wife passed away 14 years ago.
Mr. Swash is a collector of all things. A broken
toothpick holder, a cashmere napkin, model airplanes, holiday
souvenirs, old cameras that don't work, and who knows what other curios decorate his shelves. He likes things that
look like they have a personality to them, that have a story to tell, that come from somewhere and someone close or very far away, in another strange realm.
At night, before he goes to sleep, he drinks a cup of sweet brandy tea. It is usually a bitter cold outside and he pulls up his woolen socks before he climbs into bed. His bed is a hay loft in his attic and Mr. Swash is a sound sleeper. Every night while he sleeps, his curios come alive. The model fire-engine goes woot-woot in iterating circles. The toothpick holder picks a fight with the wristwatch. The hamburger fridge-magnet from Austria climbs up to the loft and watches Mr. Swash snore softly. And the tuxedo-clad spy figurine walks up to the poster of Betty Boop and says,
"Hi. I'm Mental. Orna Mental."
At night, before he goes to sleep, he drinks a cup of sweet brandy tea. It is usually a bitter cold outside and he pulls up his woolen socks before he climbs into bed. His bed is a hay loft in his attic and Mr. Swash is a sound sleeper. Every night while he sleeps, his curios come alive. The model fire-engine goes woot-woot in iterating circles. The toothpick holder picks a fight with the wristwatch. The hamburger fridge-magnet from Austria climbs up to the loft and watches Mr. Swash snore softly. And the tuxedo-clad spy figurine walks up to the poster of Betty Boop and says,
"Hi. I'm Mental. Orna Mental."
