The Paper Bags escape and run wild in the geranium fields down by the salty egg whites. Little Soupspoon sees one of them snap at a doddery old flowerpot, and cries when the flowerpot topples over and cracks apart. As I ready for bed, the rustle of the Paper Bags outside on the street comes in the window. They’re on their way back from the salty egg whites, stiff and crinkly, some of them folded in two and moving slowly. One squats behind a piano stool and the ground puddles. Bored, I creep into bed and sleep. When I awaken, the window is covered in chalk dust and six or seven colored Chalk Sticks are on the sill. In the garden, a Loaf of Bread picks at a Chalk Stick. When I rap on the pane the Loaf flies off into the rising grapes of morning.