My friend's shirt had a nonexistent pocket on it. And oh, the things she kept in there! Peacocks and pikemen and picometers, swans and serenades, the moonlight of Io captured in synthetic diamonds, the smell of fresh baked bread and fresh washed linens, a song about commercial space tourism, and a song about the emotions that happen during the Krebb cycle. There was the memory of peanut butter (but no actual peanut butter, because that would be sticky) and the promise of granite (but no actual granite, because that would be heavy) and the suggestion of a green dress (but not a real green dress, because that's cruel).
And it's amazing the way paisleys would dance out the corners of the pocket, like some Lovecraftian tentacles bursting through the normal laws of physics to reach out for some corrupted scholar, only instead of tentacles they were paisleys.
This is what pockets are for, I thought, my sense of good grammatical structure lost in another pocket somewhere.